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TLATS OF TO-'T>Ar ^ND TO-MORROW 



LADT TATRICIA 



VLJYS OF 'UO-TiAY JltKD TO-MORROW. 



DON. By Rudolf Besier. 

" Mr. Besier is a man who can see and think for himself, and 
constructs as setting for the result of that activity a form of his 
own. The construction of ' Don ' is as daring as it is original." 
— Mr. Max Bcerbohm in The Saturday Review. 

" It is a fresh and moving story . . . and full of good things." 
—Mr. A. B. Walkley in The Times. 

" ' Don ' is a genuine modern comedy, rich in observation and 
courage, and will add to the author's reputation as a sincere 
dramatist." — Mr. E. F. Spence in The Westminster Gazette. 

" If the essence of dran a be conflict, the wrestle of will, then 
' Don.' by Rudolf Besier, comes as near as any play I know to 
essential drama. It is a sparring match in heaven knows how 
many rounds." — Mr. William Archer in The Nation. 

THE EARTH. By James B. Fagan. 

'" A magnificent plaj- — at one and the same time a vital and 
fearless attack on political fraud, and a brilliantly written 
strong human drama. Moreover, the lighter interludes are 
written with a brilliance and a polished humour with which 
one had not ere ited Mr. Fagan hitherto " — J'he Daily Chronicle. 

■' 'The Earth ' mu-t conquer every one by its buoyant irony, 
its pungent delineations, and not least by its rich stores of 
simple and wholesome moral feeling. . . . The credit may be 
equally divided between the vivacity and iridescence of its 
witty and trenchant dialogue and the tenacious grip of its 
searching and most substantial issues." — The Pall Mall Gazette. 

"An interesting and remarkable achievement." — The West- 
minster Gazette. 

LONDON : T. FISHER UNWIN. 
NEW YORK : DUFPIELD & CO. 



LADT 
T ATRI C I A 

cA COMEDT 10^ THREE ^CTS 



Br 



%IJD0LF "BESIEI^ 



tAuthor of " IDon " 




NEW rORKu' DUFFIELD & COMPANT 
36-38 WEST iph STREET 



PRgoob 



TO 
ELIZABETH FAGAN 



Gift 
H. L. Mencken. 



JAM 1 1929 



{All rights reserved.) 



i 



CHARACTERS 

Dean Lesley 

Michael Cosway 

William O'Fabeel (Bill) 

Baldwin 

Ellis 

John 

Lady Patricia Cosway 

Mrs. O'Parrel 

Clare Lesley 



The Cast of the play as it was produced at the Hay- 
market Theatre, London, on March 22, 1911, under 
the management of Mr. Herbert Trench. 



Dean Lesley ... 
Michael Cosway 
Bill O'Farrel 
Baldwin 

Ellis 

John 

Lady Patricia Cosway 
Mrs. O'Farrel 
Clare Lesley ... 



Mr. Eric Lewis 
Mr. Arthur Wontnkr 
Mr. Charles Maude 
Mr. C. V. France 
Me. Dickson Kenwin 
Mr. Norman Page 
Mrs. Patrick Campbell 
Miss Rosina Pilippi 
Miss Athene Seyler 



SCENERY 



The First Act. 



The platform and summer-house built on an oak-tree in 

the grounds of "Ultima Thule," Michael Cosway's 

country seat at Norman Arches. 



The Second Act. 
The same. 

The Third Act. 
The Deanery garden, Norman Arches, 



Five weeks elapse between Acts I. and II., and one night 
between Acts II. and III. 



CAUTION 

Professionals and Amateurs are hereby warned that 
"LADY PATRICIA," being fully protected under the 
Copyright Laws of the United States, is subject to royalty, 
and anyone presenting the play without the consent of the 
author or his authorized agent will be liable to the penalties 
by law provided. Application for the right to produce 
" LADY PATRICIA " must be made to Charles Frohman, 
Empire Theatre, New York City. 

[all bights besebved] 



THE FIRST ACT 



THE FIRST ACT 

The scene shows the summer-house and platform 
built in an oak-tree at " Ultima Thule." The 
stage, slightly raised, represents the platform. 
In the right-hand corner is the summer-house, 
built on branches a few feet higher than the 
platform. The entrance to the platform is 
through a square hole, reached by a ladder 
from beneath. The tree, a vast, ancient, and 
mossy oak, comes straight through the centre 
of the platform, its branches spreading aloft in 
every direction. 

(Lady Pateicia, in a loose and exquisite 
costume, lies full length in a deck-chair, 
reading aloud from some beautiful vellum 
MSS. She is a woman of about thirty -five, 
languid, elegant, exotic, romantic, and sen- 
timental. Beside her is a tall vase with 
arum-lilies and a table with a samovar. 
It is a late afternoon in May.) 

Lady Patricia. 

(Reading with fine feeling.) 

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 



12 LADY PATRICIA 

Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life shall I command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
Without the sense of that which I forebore — 
Thy touch upon the palm 

(Ellis, the footman, enters carrying a tray 
with a cup and saucer, and some sliced 
lemon. Lady Patricia raises her hand 
to command silence. He stands rigid. 
She continues with scarcely a break:) 

The widest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy hand in mine, 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream include thee as the wine 
Must taste of its own grape. And when I sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes the tears of two . . . 

{A pause; she repeats in a deep voice) 

And sees within my eyes the tears of two . . . 
. . . the tears of two . . . 

What is it, Browning? 

(Ellis stands motionless ; a pause; she looks 
round at him.) 

Did I call you Browning? How absurd ! I meant 
Ellis. . . . Oh, the tea ! Yes, of course. Please 
put everything near me on the table. 

(He does so.) 



LADY PATRICIA 13 

(She repeats dreamily) . . . the tears of 
two. . . . 

Ellis. 

I beg your pardon, my lady? 

Lady Pateicia. 

Nothing. I will look after myself. 

(Ellis turns to go.) 

Oh, Ellis. . . . 

Ellis. 

Yes, my lady? 

Lady Patricia. 

You have brought only one cup. 

Ellis. 

I thought you were taking tea by yourself, my 
lady. 

Lady Patricia. 

Please bring another cup. 

Ellis. 

Yes, my lady. And milk and cream, my lady? 

Lady Patricia. 

Milk and cream. . . . (After a dreamy pause.) 
Yes, I am afraid so. But don't put it on the table. 



14 LADY PATRICIA 

Hide it in the summer-house. And will you send 
Baldwin to me? 

Ellis. 

Yes, my lady. 

(He goes out.) 

Lady Patricia. 

{Turns over the pages of a MS.^, and then 
reads with thrilling beauty.) 

When I am dead, my dearest, 

Sing no sad songs for me. 
Plant thou no roses at my head, 

Nor shady cypress-tree. 
Be green the grass above me, 

With showers and dewdrops wet, 
And if thou wilt, remember. 

And if thou wilt, forget. 

I shall not see the shadows, 

I shall not feel the rain, 
I shall not hear the nightingale 

Sing on as if in pain. 
And dreaming through the twilight 

That doth not rise or set. 
Haply I may remember. 

And haply may forget. 

(With dramatic emphasis.) 
When I am dead, my dearest 



LADY PATRICIA 15 

{Enter Baldwin, a gardener of about seventy, 
heavy, slow, phlegmatic.) 

Baldwin. 

{In spite of Lady Patricia's raised hand . ) Beg 
pardon, m'lady? 

Lady Patricia. 

Sing no sad songs {Fretfully.) Oh, 

Baldwin, what do you want? 

Baldwin. 

Mr. Ellis said as you wished to speak to me, 
mum. 

Lady Patricia. 

Mr. Ellis? . . . Oh, yes, I remember now. 
What is it I wanted to tell you? 

Baldwin. 

Mr. Ellis didn't make mention, m'lady. 

Lady Patricia. 

How stupid of him ! {She regards Baldwin 
dreamily.) Baldwin . . . 

Baldwin. 
Yes, 'um? 

Lady Patricia. 

You ought to be very happy. 



16 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 
Yes, 'um. 

Lady Patricia. 

Very happy. Because you are a gardener. I 
can imagine no calling more beautiful. You are 
the father of innumerable children, and they are 
all lovely. 

Baldwin. 

Thank 'ee, m'lady. I've 'ad thirteen — and two 
of 'em by my first wife. 

Lady Patricia. 

Thir-teen ! . . . Good heavens, Baldwin, what 
are you talking about? 

Baldwin. 

You made mention of my family, m'lady. 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh, but I meant the flowers you tend and rear. 
The gillyflowers and eglantine, myrtle, rosemary, 
columbine, and daffydowndillies. Not — how 
strange and dreadful ! Thirteen ! 

Baldwin. 

I've 'card tell that thirteen's an unlucky number, 
m'lady. But I ain't suspicious. 

Lady Patricia. 

Suspicious ? 



LADY PATRICIA 17 

Baldwin. 

Yes, 'um. And if I was, fac's won't change for 
the wishin'. Thirteen's the number, and thirteen 
it's like to remain, seeing as Mrs. Baldwin's turned 
sixty -three . 

Lady Patricia. 

I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you're 
talking about. 

Baldwin. 
I 

Lady Patricia. 

You needn't repeat it. . . . Oh, I remember now 
why I sent for you, Baldwin. I wonder if, with- 
out hurting the beauty of the tree, you could open 
a window to the sunset? 

Baldwin. 

Open a winder? . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

You don't understand me ? Let me put it 
differently ! I should like you to cut away some 
of the foliage so that I can watch the sun dropping 
behind the hills. 

Baldwin. 

Yes, m'lady. But— 



18 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 

I know what you are going to say. When we 
built this place in the tree, I gave you special 
directions not to touch the western foliage as it 
hid the view of Ashurst Manor, which I found 
distressingly unsightly. Yes ! But since my 
aunt, Mrs. O'Farrel, has taken the house, it seems 
to me far less offensive. Likes and dislikes are, 
after all, so much a matter of temperament and 
association ! The former owner was an impossible 
person . 

Baldwin. 

The Scotch gentleman? 

Lady Patricia. 

He was a Jew, Baldwin, though his name was 
Mackintosh. I don't wish to speak of him. When 
you cut the foliage, please use restraint and feel- 
ing. On no account disfigure the tree. Watch 
from this spot the sun going down, and lop away 
a little branch here and a little branch there, so as 
to give me some perfect glimpses of gold and rose. 

(Ellis enters with cup and saucer, milk, 
cream, whisky, soda, and a tumbler.) 

Baldwin. 
Yes, 'm. 

Lady Patricia. 

{To Ellis.) What have you got there? 



LADY PATRICIA 19 

Ellis. 

The cup and saucer and the milk and cream, 
my lady. And I thought I had better bring 
whisky and soda as well, my lady. 

Lady Patricia. 

I never told you to. I wish you wouldn't be 
so enterprising. Please hide it with the cream in 
the summer-house. (ELLIS does so.) So you 
think I can safely trust you with this important 
piece of work, Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. 

Yes, 'm. (Ellis goes out.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Do it as soon as possible, as I shall often be 
sitting here during these adorable summer even- 
ings — 

(Bill O'Farrel enters during the rest of 
her sentence. He is a wholesome, typically 
English young man of about twenty - 
six . ) 

— and I couldn't bear to miss many sunsets like 
yesterday's. 

Bill. 

Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

(Without rising.) Bill ! 



20 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

(Seizing her hands.) Patricia ! 

Lady Patkicia. 

Bill ! . . . That will do, Baldwin. 

Bill. 

Quite well, Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. 

Pretty middlin', Mr. O'Farrel, sir, thank you. 
. . . Then it don't matter showin' up Ashurst 
Manor, m'lady? 

Bill. 

(With a laugh, to Pateicia.) Hullo ! what's 
this? 

Lady Pateicia. 

No, no, Baldwin ! I wish to see it. It has 
suddenly grown beautiful ! A fairy palace ! 

Bill. 

Great Scott I 

Baldwin. 

Yes, 'm. But 



Lady Pateicia. 

That will do, Baldwin. 



LADY PATRICIA 21 

Baldwin. 

Yes, 'm. {He goes out.) 

Bill. 

What's this about Ashurst? 

Lady Pateicia. 

I have asked Baldwin to cut away some of those 
branches so that I can see it. I used to loathe the 
sight of the house. Then your mother bought it, 
and I liked it. I love it now that you have come 
to stay there. . . . You may kiss me, Bill. 

Bill. 

May I? (He kisses her forehead.) 

Lady Patricia. 

You may kiss me again. 

Bill. 

May I? (He kisses her cheek.) 

Lady Patricia. 

You may kiss me again. 

Bill. 

Patricia ! (He kisses her mouth.) 

Lady Patricia. 

(Clinging to him.) Oh, how I've longed for this 
moment — how^ I've longed for it ! . . . All these 



22 LADY PATRICIA 

weary months I've lived in the past and future, 
on memories and anticipations. Now, at last I 
have the present — I have reality — you — to have 
and to hold — you — you. . . . Kiss me. 

Bill. 

(Embracing her ardently.) Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Hush ! (Disengaging herself.) We mustn't be 
foolish. ... Sit down. . . . (He sits at her 
feet.) So you got my telegram? 

Bill. 

Directly the boat came alongside. But it took 
me a deuce of a time to make out ! My French is 
a bit rusty, and the rotters had jumbled up some 
of the words. As it is, I only made out the gist 
of it — to take an earlier train from London than 
I'd intended, and to call on you before going on 
to Ashurst, as I'd find you alone in a summer- 
house you'd built on some tree or other. The 
twiddly bits of the message didn't somehow seem 
to make sense . . . 

Lady Pateicia. 

The . . . twiddly bits? 

Bill. 

Yes ; something about a star in red water, and 
horses with white manes. Couldn't make it out 
at all. 



LADY PATRICIA 23 

Lady Patricia. 

That was a quotation from De Musset, my poor 
boy. 

Bill. 

Great Scott ! I thought it was a cypher. People 
don't generally quote poetry in their telegrams. 

Lady Patricia. 
I do. 

Bill. 

In any case, it seemed to me a bit rash of you 
to send the wire at all — even in French. 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh, did it? As a matter of fact, I used French, 
not to conceal the message, but because the lan- 
guage seemed to me so beautifully .appropriate 
for making a clandestine meeting. 

Bill. 

By Jove ! Fancy thinking of that ! 

Lady Patricia. 

To sin beautifully is the less ^a sin. Don't 
forget, dear, that, however innocent, our love is 
wrong. We should never neglect an opportunity 
of ennobling it with little touches of beauty, should 
we? 



24 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Rather not ! ... So Michael's away ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Only this afternoon. He has gone to a garden 
party at the Fitzgeralds'. Your mother's there as 
well. Everybody's there. But I wanted to see 
you for a little while before any one else, so I 
sent you that wire and pretended a headache. 
A petty deceit that avenged itself ! For directly 
I told it, I felt a slight twinge of neuralgia. 

Bill. 

Hard luck ! But it's better, dear, isn't it? 

Lady Patricia. 

I suppose it is. But you mustn't say " hard 
luck." My life, alas ! is so full of deceits that 
when one of them is punished, I always try to 
be grateful. But tell me now, about yourself — 
everything that has happened these last months. 
Your letters have been too full of facts to tell 
me anything. And I do so long to hear all your 
news. . . . 

Bill. 

Patricia. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 
Yes, dear? 



LADY PATRICIA 25 

Bill. 

What an awfully good woman you are ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Am I ? ... I wonder ! 

Bill. 

And your eyes are simply ripping. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Are they? 

Bill. 

And your hands, by Jove ! 

Lady Patricia. 

What of my hands, dear? 

Bill. 

They're simply ripping. 

Lady Patricia. 

Dear heart! (Stroking his head.) Dear soft 
hair. But I'm waiting. 

Bill. 

Oh yes, I forgot. But there really ain't much 
to tell that I haven't told you in my letters. 
I arrived in New York on a Saturday after an 
awfully jolly passage. Those big Cunarders are 
corking boats. Had a bit of a dust-up at the 



26 LADY PATRICIA 

Customs, but I squared the chap with a ten -dollar 
bill. A chap on board advised me to put up at 
the Waldorf-Astoria. He told me it was one of 
their swaggerest hotels, but I must say 

Lady Patricia. 

{Laughing.) Yes, yes, dear, you've told me all 
that before ! And about the nigger waiter whose 
thumb was always in the soup — and the Californian 
peach as big as a baby's head — and the factory 
that was burned down in Chicago — and the card- 
sharper who tried to swindle you at poker, " but 
he got hold of the wrong chap, by Jove ! " — and 
so many other thrilling details. {Almost with 
passion, taking his face in her hands.) You dar- 
ling ! Oh, you darling ! 

Bill. 

I thought I'd told you everything. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Of course you did — everything. {With far-off 
eyes.) I wonder why I am so foolish as to expect 
the essentials from you — those labourings of the 
soul at midnight, yearnings, ecstasies, and long, 
long thoughts under the stars. If you had been 
capable of these I should never have loved you. 
It's just your simplicity and eternal boyishness 
that took my heart. Poor Michael's spiritual 
nature, his dreams, his subtlety, his devotion, never 
touched me deeper than the intellect. I mistook 
sympathy for love — I seemed to have found a 



LADY PATRICIA 27 

kindred spirit — I married him. Yes ! we are all 
born to suffer and endure. . . . Which reminds 
me, my poor dear boy, you must be dying for tea. 
{Pouring out the tea.) I hope you had some 
lunch ? 

Bill. 

Rather ! I had a luncheon -basket in the train, 
and put away the best part of a chicken, among 
other things. 

Lady Patkicia. 

How young and hungry you are I 

{Rands him a cup of tea with a lemon slice 
in the saucer.) 

Bill. 

I say I . . . 

Lady Patkicia. 
Yes, dear? 

Bill. 

Have you any milk or cream? 

Lady Patkicia. 

{Sorrowfully.) Oh, Bill ! . . . 

Bill, 

I can't help it. This Russian mess ain't a 
Christian drink. I can't think how you can 
swallow it. 



28 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 

I don't suppose I like it any better than you, 
dear. But the mixture of cream and tea, as I have 
often told you, produces an odious colour — and I 
refuse to encourage it. You should try to do 
likewise. . . . However, you will find cream in 
the summer-house. 

Bill. 

Right-ho ! (Goes into summer-house.) Hullo ! 
Good man ! Here's whisky-and-soda. {Talking 
in the summer-house, half to himself, half to her.) 
That's the stuff ! Nothing like a syphonated spot 
when one's got a real thirst ! No tea for me, 
thanks. 

Lady Patricia. 

{To herself, smiling.) Dear babbler. . . . 

Bill. 

{Coming down, a glassful in his hand.) Here's 
to you, Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

(In a deep voice, looking into eternity.) We 
are all born to suffer, to endure, to renounce . . . 

Bill. 

Oh, well ! I'll drink that Russian stuff if you 
like. 

Lady Patricia. 

I was not thinking of tea. I was thinking of life. 



LADY PATRICIA 29 

Bill. 

(Unfeignedly relieved.) Yes, it's an awfully 
hard world. (Takes a long draught.) By Jove, 
that's clinking good ! 

Lady Patkicia. 

It becomes more and more difficult to play my 
part, and return Michael's love, which seems to 
grows stronger and deeper day by day. His eyes 
follow my every movement, his mind anticipates 
my every wish, he surrounds me with an atmosphere 
of passionate worship. Few women have ever 
received such love. It is the love that poets dream 
of — the love that must follow those marriages that 
are made in heaven. 

Bill. 

Good Lord, it's awfully rough on you ! 

Lady Pateicia. 

I think and I think and I think, but I can see 
no solution to the mystery. Surely love is the 
best gift of God, and that such love as Michael's — 
so noble, so pure, so unselfish — should be utterly 
wasted, is inconceivable. It must be that I am 
unworthy. (She pauses expectantly .) 

Bill. 

And it puts me in such a rotten position. If 
Michael treated you badly, I shouldn't care a rap 
how much I made love to you. 



30 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

(With slight asperity.) Can it be that I am 
unworthy ? 

Bill. 

As it is I often feel such a beastly cad. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

Then you think me unworthy? 

Bill. 
I? 

Lady Patricia. 

You never denied it. 

Bill. 

But I didn't know you wanted me to ! You're 
worthy of anything ! You know that ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Dear, dear boy ! But am I ? I wonder ! 
Heaven only knows how desperately I tried to love 
him, and when I found it impossible, how I never 
faltered in pretending a love equal to his. And 
I knew that it would kill him should he learn 
the truth. But if the part I played was difficult 
before you came, after you came, and I knew what 
love was, it was almost beyond my power. And 
yet I drew strength somehow, not only to resist 
temptation and keep our love pure, but never by 
word, deed, or expression to let Michael suspect 



LADY PATRICIA 31 

for one moment that his devotion was not returned. 
Yes ! I think a woman who has done all this 
cannot he altogether unworthy. 

Bill. 

You're — you're a saint— you're an angel ! 

Lady Patricia. 
Am I ? I wonder ! 

Bill. 

You really are ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Dear, inarticulate boy ! . . . And, Bill, remem- 
ber this. We have put our hands to the plough, 
and there must be no turning back. The martyr- 
dom which must be lifelong has only just begun. 
I feel I shall find strength to play my bitter role 
to the final curtain. For I love renunciation, 
endurance, and purity. They are such exquisite 
virtues. And virtue is very beautiful. . . . But 
you are made of more earthly materials, my poor 
boy. Do you realise that your love must always 
remain unsatisfied? Can you love me without the 
faintest hope of more reward than a look, a touch, 
a kiss? . . . 

Bill. 

That's all right, Patricia. Don't you worry 
about me. 



32 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

But you are young and vigorous and pas- 
sionate. . . . 

Bill. 

That's all right ! 

Lady Patricia. 

I can only offer you the shadow ; your nature 
will some day cry out for the substance. 

Bill. 

Not it ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Ah, if only I had the strength and courage to 
bid you good-bye for ever ! 

Bill. 

I shouldn't go. 

Lady Patricia. 
Ah, Bill ! . . . 

(She invites his caress with a beautiful move- 
ment. Kneeling beside her, he gathers her 
in his arms and kisses her. At that 
moment Baldwin enters, carrying a saw 
and a pair of shears. They are blissfully 
unconscious of his presence. He glances 
at them with complete indifference, then 
comes down looking carefully at the sky 



LADY PATRICIA 33 

on the right, his head dodging from side 
to side as though he were spying for some- 
thing among the branches.) 

Baldwin. 

If you please, 'm. . . . 

(Bill, with an inarticulate cry, starts to his 
feet.) 

Bill. 

.What the devil are you doing here? 

Lady Patricia. 

(Calmly.) Well, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

If you please, m'lady, I thought as I 'ad best 
watch the sun early. It's close on six 'm, and I 
thought as p'raps you'd like some branches lopped 
'igher up. The sun's a fine sight at six, mum — 
much more light in it than a hour later, an' it's a 
neasier job loppin' they 'igher branches than them 
out there, as I shan't need no ladder. 

Bill. 

Quite mad ! 

Lady Patricia. 

I don't want to sit here and look at the sun 
through a pair of smoked glasses. You may return 
here when the sun is lower. 

3 



34 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Yes, m'lady. But 

Lady Pateicia. 
Go away. . . . 

Baldwin. 

Yes, 'm. (He goes out.) 

Lady Pateicia. 

Very tiresome, isn't he ? 

Bill. 

I don't half like the old ass catching us like 
that. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Catching us? 

Bill. 

Yes, fairly caught us in the act. . . . 

Lady Pateicia. 
Bill! 

Bill. 

iWell, he must have seen me kiss you. I don't 
half like it. 

Lady Pateicia. 

How very bourgeois you are ! 

Bill. 

Well, I don't know about that. But 



LADY PATRICIA 35 

Lady Patricia. 

Not bourgeois, then ! No, no ! Young and self- 
conscious ! Fancy getting red and embarrassed 
because a gardener saw you looking affectionate ! 
. . . Dear, dear boy ! . . . Now sit down again 
and listen. I caught an impression of the sunset 
yesterday, a few lines, but I believe they are 
precious — not precieux — precious in the true sense 
of the word. . . . Don't you hate this modern 
artistic jargon? 

Bill. 
Rather ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Listen. . . . (She recites.) 

A dreamy blue invests the lonely hill, 
Far off against the orient green and cold; 
Silence declines upon these branches old; 
The level land is still; 
The lofty azure deepens; faintlier glows 
The delicate beauty of the sunset rose; 
And pensive grey encroaches on the gold. 

Tenderly coloured, are they not? 

Bill. 
Yours? 

Lady Patricia. 

Mine. 



36 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Ripping ! 

Lady Pateicia. 

Ripping. . . Oh, how unpleasant ! Say that 
other word instead. 

Bill. 

What word? 

Lady Patricia. 

I don't quite know. Something to do with 
bottles . 

Bill. 

Clinking ? 

Lady Patricia. 

No. . . . Something to do with wine. . . . 

Bill. 

Oh ! you mean — corking. 

Lady Patricia. 
Yes, corking. 

Bill. 

Right -ho! 

Lady Patricia. 

Thank you, dear. . . . And so you like my 
lines ? 



LADY PATRICIA 37 

Bill. 

They're corking. And so's your voice when you 
read 'em. 

Lady Patricia. 

{Dreamily .) I write corking verses, and I read 
them with a corking voice. (With passion.) Oh, 
Bill ! Oh, my dear 

Bill. 

Yes? 

Lady Patricia. 

How I wish that you and I were alone on a 
little island in the vEgean Archipelago ! . . . 
Hush ! (The sound of a motor in the distance.) 
Do you hear ? A motor -car coming up the drive ! 
You can see if you look through the branches there. 
(Points to the left.) Be careful, dear. Don't let 
any one see you. 

Bill. 

(Looking over the rail of the platform.) Great 
Scott ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Yes? 

Bill 

It's the mater's car, and 



(The sound of the motor stops.) 



38 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 

It's stopping ! Oh, Bill 



Bill. 

The mater and Michael, and the Dean — and 
who's the jolly-looking girl ? 

Lady Patricia. 

With a face like a naughty hoy's? 

Bill. 
Yes. 

Lady Patricia. 

That must he Clare Lesley. Michael has been 
very kind to her lately. He is trying to give her 
a serious view of life. 

Bill. 

I say, you don't mean to tell me that's Clare, 
the Dean's daughter? Why, I thought she was 
a flapper ! 

Lady Patricia. 
A flapper? . . . 

Bill. 

Yes, When last I saw her, a little more than a 
year ago, her skirts weren't much below her knees, 
and 



LADY PATRICIA 39 

Lady Patricia. 

Flapper. . . . What a strange word ! How do 
you spell it? With a "ph"? 

Bill. 

No, with a double p. Hullo ! 

{He draws hack.) 

Lady Patricia. 
What is it? 

Bill. 

They're all coming here ! 

Lady Patricia. 
No! 

Bill. 

They are, by Jove ! The whole crowd. What 
shall we do? 

Lady Patricia. 

Your mother and Michael mustn't find you here. 
You must fly ! 

Bill. 

That's all very well. But where can I go to? 
They're bound to spot me if I get down the steps. 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh, but can't you climb somewhere up the tree 
and hide yourself like a bird among the branches? 



40 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

What? . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

It's the only thing to do. And so simple ! And 
so romantic ! 

Bill. 

lYes, that's all right. But supposing they see 
me — what am I to say? 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh, anything ! Use a little imagination. . . . 
Say you are looking for birds' eggs. But they 
won't see you if you lie along that thick branch 
up there. 

Bill. 

Birds' -nesting. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

I shall pretend to be asleep. 

Bill. 
Why? 

Lady Patricia. 
Why not? 

Bill. 

{Grumbling as he moves towards the trunk.) 
I'll look such a bally ass if they spot me. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 41 

Lady Patricia. 
Bill! 

Bill. 
Eh? 

Lady Patricia. 

This glass mustn't be found here. 

Bill. 

By Jove ! 

(Re returns and takes hold of the glass, which 
is half -full.) 

Lady Patricia. 

And the cup and saucer. . . . 

Bill. 

Good Lord ! 

{He stands helplessly, the cup and saucer in 
one hand, the glass in the other.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Put them into your pockets. 

Bill. 
But 

Lady Patricia. 

Quick — quick ! (He drinks the whisky.) Now 
the tea. (He makes as though to throw it away.) 
No ! no ! they might see or hear. Drink it. 



42 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

I really couldn't. 

Lady Patricia. 
For my sake. 

Bill. 

{Gulping it down.) Muck ! {Making for the 
tree.) By Jove, they're nearly here ! 

Lady Patricia. 

{Pointing to the left.) I really must have 
another ladder built on this side. 

Bill. 

I hope they won't see me climbing. 

{He starts climbing the tree.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Be small — for my sake. . . . 

{She composes herself elaborately into a sleep- 
ing posture. Bill is seen disappearing on 
high. Voices are audible beneath. A 
pause.) 

Bill. 

{He has climbed out of sight.) I say. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 
S-sh! . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 43 

Bill. 

It's all right. They're standin' about talkin'. 
Can you see me? 

Lady Patricia. 

Where are you ? 

Bill. 
Here. 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh, yes, I see. . . . 

Bill. 

The devil you do ! What part o' me ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Er — well — your — your back. . . . 

Bill. 

Damn ! Oh, confound this beastly cup and 
saucer ! They keep on rattling. 

Lady Patricia. 

Put the saucer in the other pocket. 

Bill. 

The glass is in the other pocket. 

Lady Patricia. 

Have you only two pockets ? 



44 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Hush ! they're coming, 

(The voices approach. Lady Patricia ar- 
ranges herself, one hand supporting her 
face, the other hanging over the side of 
the chair lightly holdi^ig a manuscript. 
Mrs. O'Farrel enters, followed by Clare 
Lesley, Dean Lesley, and Michael Cos- 
WAY. Mrs. O'Farrel is a genuine, down- 
right, humorous lady of fifty-seven ; Clare 
Lesley, the Dean's daughter, a pretty 
girl of about twenty; Dean Lesley, a 
clerical exquisite, who carries his sixty 
years as lightly as his silver -knobbed stick 
and monocle; and Michael Cosway, Lady 
Patricia's husband, a tall, serious man 
of thirty -eight.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

{Out of breath.) Ah. . . . I'm green with 
envy of you, Dean ! You're at least five years my 
senior, and your wind is as sound as your doctrines. 
Look at me ! I can't climb a tree without getting 
— what's the word, Clare? 

Clare. 

Punctured. 

Dean. 

My dear child ! 



LADY PATRICIA 45 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Scold me, Dean, scold me ! I meant the word, 
but hadn't the pluck to say it. 

(The Dean laughs.) 
Michael. 

And how do you like our little eyrie, Mrs. 
O'Farrel? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Charming, Michael, charming ! It's quite worth 
getting — getting — give me the word, Clare. 

Clare. 
Winded. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Laughs and pats Clare's cheek.) Yes, it's 
quite worth getting punctured — and winded — to see 
the view from here, Michael. How like you and 
Patricia to think of such a piece of arboreal senti- 
mentality ! Now whose idea (Perceives LADY 

Patricla. for the first time.) Why, Patricia ! 

(Michael with an exclamation rushes to Lady 
Patricia's side. Clare looks bored.) 

Dean. 

Delightful ! 

Michael. 

S-sh . . . She's asleep. . . . 



46 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Asleep ! I should think she was, for my strident 
voice not to awake her ! 

Clare. 

Perhaps she's shamming. 

Dean. 

My dear child ! 

Michael. 

{In a solemn whisper.) We must he very careful 
not to wake her. She had a bad headache this 
morning. . . . See how she leans her cheek upon 
her hand ! 

Dean. 

/ would I were a glove upon that hand! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Dean ! 

Clare. 
Shocking ! 

Dean. 

And why? I love all that is beautiful with all 
my senses. . . . And why shouldn't I? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Because such youthful depravity makes me 
envious again. 



LADY PATRICIA 47 

Dean. 

Pardon me, my dear lady, I remember you far 
too well as a girl to believe that even now 

Mes. O 'Parrel. 

(Hastily.) Michael ! . . . Will you and Clare 
take the car and meet Bill's train ? It won't take 
you ten minutes ; I'm too comfortable to move at 
present. Besides, we must have the place to our- 
selves, the Dean and I, as he is becoming indis- 
creetly reminiscent. Bring Bill back with you 
here, and he and I will drive home together. 
. , . You don't mind? 

Michael. 

I shall be delighted. 

Clare. 

I'm not surprised you want to get rid of me, 
pater, if you're going to talk about your gay youth. 
You must have been an awful rip. 

Dean. 

Really, Clare ! 

Mrs. C Parrel. 

It was my gay youth your father was threatening 
us with. 

Clare. 

You must have been a dear then, as now ! . . . 

{She kisses Mrs. O'Parrel impulsively, and 
goes out past Michael. Michael follows 



48 LADY PATRICIA 

her, turns and coines back with a twig 
of oak in his hand. He gives it to the 
Dean.) 

Michael. 

Will you kindly keep the flies off Patricia's face 
while I'm away? 

Dean. 

Oh, delighted ! Delighted ! 

(Michael goes out. Mrs. OTarrel looks 
with amusement at the Dean, who stands 
with the twig in his hand glancing quiz- 
zically at her and longingly at Lady 
Patricia.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

When duty and pleasure are combined, there's 
no reason to hesitate. I saw a fly settle on 
Patricia's chin. 

Dean. 

Happy fly ! 

(He tiptoes up to PATRICIA and starts 
fanning her and daintily examining her 
through his eyeglass. Mrs. O'Farrel 
puts up her lorgnette and regards them 
with vast amusement. Suddenly a rotten 
branch falls from above on to the plat- 
form . ) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Lorgnetting upwards.) How very strange! 
And not a breath of wind ! 



LADY PATRICIA 49 

Dean. 

(MonocUng upwards.) Merely a squirrel. I 
believe I caught sight of its tail. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I hope the tree's not rotten. I'm considerably 
heavier than a squirrel ! 

(She goes over to the DEAN.) 
Dean. 

Oh, softly, please. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Laughing .) Softly yourself ! 

Dean. 

(Pointing to Patricia.) Did you ever see the 
like? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

iWhat are you talking about? 

Dean. 

The wonder of this sleeping woman. Was there 
ever anything more beautiful? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I thought you knew better than to praise one 
woman to another. 

Dean. 

Oh, but you are not another ! You are Eileen 
who, ever since I met her in short skirts, have 
been the fairest of all. 

4 



50 LADY PATRICIA 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

Fiddle-de-dee ! I'm old and ugly ! 

Dean. 

No woman can ever be old and ugly — ^you least 
of all. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Charming old humbug ! Well, I agree with you 
— Patricia's certainly ornamental. 

Dean. 

The pose, my dear lady, the pose ! Unstudied 
grace of abandonment, artless perfection ! Per- 
fection as a whole, perfection in detail ! Consider 
the right hand : so blissfully burdened. Consider 
the left : still clasping some poem only less ex- 
quisite than itself. The eyelids are faintly blue — 
surely with the sky of a delicate dream. From 
head to foot every curve is a lyric — from head — I 
should like to see her foot. 

{Re looks sadly at her covered feet.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Haven't you the courage? 

Dean. 

I beg your pardon ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
To look at it. 

Dean. 

Mrs. O'Farrel! 



LADY PATRICIA 51 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Well, if I admired her feet as much as you do, 
I shouldn't hesitate. 

Dean. 

But supposing she woke and found me — er — 



er- 



Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Arranging her skirt? . , . My dear man, I 
know Patricia ; she would gladly show you several 
inches of her ankle. 

Dean. 

Eileen, you're a wicked woman ! 

{They move to the other side of the plat- 
form . ) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

And you're a scandalous example of clerical 
depravity ! 

(Lady Patricia looks cautiously over her 
shoulder at them, yawns, and pretends to 
sleep again.) 

Dean. 

Tut, tut, tut, my dear ! . . . Eileen, do you 
know why I went into the Church ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

You thought it a convenient cloak for your 
peccadilloes. 



52 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Out of sheer gratitude to my Maker for creating 
woman. . . . Eileen, why did you refuse to 
marry me ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

There must be at least half a dozen flies on 
Patricia's face. 

Dean. 

Never mind the flies — it's their turn for Jthe 
moment. . . . Why did you refuse me, Eileen? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Because my love for you made me a blind fool ! 
I misunderstood your admiration for women. I 
thought your homage of every girl you met, per- 
sonal — not universal, as I learned too late — a 
superb compliment to the whole sex. Dear friend, 
I repented in sackcloth and ashes ! Not that 
O'Farrel wasn't a good fellow, every inch of him. 
He made life very happy. But life with you— 
well, I missed it ! 

Dean. 

.Will you marry me, Eileen? 

Mrs. O'Farrel, 

No. 

Dean. 

Why not? 



LADY PATRICIA 53 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I'm far too old for a boy like you. 

Dean. 

Is this final? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Final. 

Dean. 

Ah ! . . . Your companionship would have 
been so good for Clare. A tactfully restraining 
influence. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I doubt it. I'm too much in sympathy with the 
child. 

Dean. 

But you wouldn't encourage her to tell every 
one she meets — including the Bishop — that she is 
an Atheist, or ride astride through the town with- 
out the formality of — er — divided skirts. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

No — perhaps not. (She lowers her voice.) I 
should first of all put a stop to her galavantin' 
about every other day with Michael. 

Dean. 

Eeally, my dear Eileen, I think the friendship 
between Michael Cosway and Clare is wholly 
charming and can only do the child good. Surely 
you don't 



54 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

No, of course I don't ! Michael's far too infatu- 
ated with your sleeping beauty there. Still, I'd 
put a stop to it. And then I should marry your 
daughter to Bill with indecent haste. 

Dean. 

Eh, what? Your son? Dear me ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

iWhy shouldn't they marry ? They are obviously 
kindred spirits. 

Dean. 

I don't know your son sufficiently well to — 



er 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

A thoroughly healthy, young animal. . . . 
You'll meet him in a moment. I hear the 
motor. ... 

Dean. 

How quick they've been ! . . . Marry them ! 
Dear me ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Now then, Mr. Dean, to work ! 

Dean. 

I don't quite 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Patricia's flies ! If Michael catches you idling ! 



LADY PATRICIA 55 

Dean. 

Now, fancy my forgetting it ! 

{They both laugh. Re hurries hack to Lady 
Patricia and starts fanning her. Voices 
are audible beneath.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

{Looking over the railing.) But where's Bill? 
{She hurries towards the entrance and calls down.) 
Have you people dropped my only son out of the 
car? 

(Clare enters, followed by Michael.) 

Clare. 

He never turned up ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Nonsense ! He wired from Southampton 
that 



Michael. 

S -s -sh ! You might wake Patricia 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh, confound Patricia ! 

Clare. 
But 



{Suddenly a saucer falls from above on to the 
middle of the platform. They all are 
startled and Patricia sits up ivith a cry.) 



56 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Dear me ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Well, I never ! 

Michael. 

What on earth ! 

Claee. 

There's some one up the tree ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

The squirrel. . . . {Looks at the Dean.) 

Dean. 

Most awkward. ... 

Michael. 

Don't be alarmed, Patricia. {Sternly.) Who 
are you, sir ? What are you doing there ? Come 
down at once. . . . Do you hear me, sir? 

Bill. 

{Still invisible to the audience.) All right — I'm 
coming. . . . 

Clare. 

There he is, Mike \ I see his leg ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

{To herself.) Mike? Hm ! 



LADY PATRICIA 57 

Michael. 
Bill! 

Bill. 

(From aloft.) Hullo ! 
(Astonished exclamations of " What ! " and 
"Bill!") 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Bill? 
(Bill comes into sight descending the trunk.) 

Bill! 

(Bill reaches terra firma. He smiles, embar- 
rassed, from one person to the other.) 

Bill. 

How are you, mother? How-de-do, Mr. Dean? 
How-de-do, Miss Lesley ? How's yourself, Michael ? 

Lady Patricia. 

And have you no greeting for poor me. Cousin 
Bill? 

Bill. 

Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry ! How-de-do, 
Cousin Patricia? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

But what on earth were you doing up the tiee? 

Bill. 

Birds' -nesting. 



58 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Farrel, Michael, Dean. 
Birds' -nesting? 

Clare. 

{Gravely.) And you took a saucer up with you 
to put the eggs in? 

Bill. 

Oh, did I? 

Clare. 

Of course. It's the usual thing to do when you 
go birds'-nesting. Didn't you always take a saucer 
with you as a boy, Mr. Cosway? 

Michael. 

I can't say I remember doing so. 

Clare. 

So long ago that you've forgotten ? I've read 
somewhere that when they look for ostrich-eggs 
in America they take soup -tureens. 

Bill. 

I say . . . ! 

Michael. 

There are no ostriches in America. 

Clare. 

Then I wonder why they look for ostrich -eggs. 



LADY PATRICIA 59 

Mes. O'Faerel. 

(Laughing .) Do stop talking nonsense, Clare ! 
. . . Really, Bill, I'm curious to know quite a 
lot of tilings. Why did you take an earlier train? 
Why did you come here? Why did you climb up 
the tree with a saucer? Why did you let Michael 
and Miss Lesley fetch you at the station? And 
why did you remain in the tree while the Dean 
and I — er 

Dean. 

Talked over old times together. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Talked over old times together. It's all rather 
mysterious. 

Dean. 

Unusual. . . . 

Bill. 

I dropped a rotten branch. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Quite so. And the Dean thought a squirrel had 
done it. 

Bill. 

Oh yes, you caught sight of my tail ! 

{He goes into a shout of lonely laughter.) 



60 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Fareel. 

That's all very well. But what was your idea 
in playing such a prank? It seems to me rather 
childish. 

Dean. 

Primitive. . . . 

Michael. 
Very. 

Clare. 
Quite. 

Lady Patricia. 

(With disarming vivacity.) Oh, my dear, dear 
friends, why do you take this so heavily? Surely 
a charming piece of boyishness ! May I tell them 
what happened, Cousin Bill? I saw through the 
whole thing at once. 

Bill. 

I'm sure you did. 

Lady Patricia. 

He so longed to see his mother that he came 
down by an earlier train. . . . Didn't you, 
Cousin Bill? 

Bill. 

That's right. 



LADY PATRICIA 61 

Lady Patricia. 

But when he arrived he found she had gone to 
a garden party. He was so disappointed. . . . 
Weren't you, Cousin Bill? 

Bill. 

That's right. 

Lady Patricia. 

Did you learn to say " that's right " in 
America? It sounds so successful. . . . When he 
found his mother was out, he thought he would 
come and see Michael and — me. Michael had gone 
to the garden party, but he was told that I was 
here. He found me asleep. . . . 

Clare. 

(Imitating Lady Patricia's voice and inanner.) 
And he kissed me — didn't you. Cousin Bill? 

(Bill goes into a shout of long and lonely 
laughter . ) 

Lady Patricia. 

(Jn a pained voice.) He found me asleep. 
I had not been feeling very well. . . . 

Michael. 

Are you better, my darling ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Thank you, Michael dear, a little better. . . . 
He found me asleep. He was thirsty, poor fellow ! 



62 LADY PATRICIA 

So he helped himself to tea. Providentially, Ellis 
had brought two cups. Then he saw you all 
coming, and thought it would be " such jolly fun " 
to climb up the tree and drop a saucer. . . . 
Didn't you? 

Clake. 

— Cousin Bill. (BILL laughs.) 

Lady Patricia. 

He had meant to do it at once. But he couldn't 
resist the joke of letting Clare and Michael fetch 
him at the station. And when they had gone he 
simply had to wait till they came back again — or, 
perhaps, the Dean and Aunt Eileen were so enjoy- 
ing each other's company, he hadn't the heart to 
disturb them. . . . Then Clare and Michael 
returned, and he thought the joke had gone far 
enough. 

Clare. 

So he threw a saucer at us. 

(Bill indulges in a third lonely laugh.) 

Michael. 

(Shortly.) Crown Derby. . . . 

Bill. 

Sorry . ■•'■ 

Lady Patricia. 

Isn't that more or less the true story, Cousin 
Bill? 



LADY PATRICIA 63 

Bill. 

I say, what an awfully clever woman you are ! 

Lady Pateicia. 

Am I ? ... I wonder ! 

Mrs. 'Parrel. 

Clever at writing verses, Patricia. But prose 
fiction's not in your line. (PATRICIA smiles pity- 
ingly and examines her rings.) Bill we must be 
off. There's barely time to dress, and some people 
are dining with us to-night. 

Bill. 

All right, mother. (He goes to Clare.) I say, 
Miss Lesley, when last we met you had long hair. 

Clare. 

(Gravely.) I still have long hair, Mr. 
'Parrel. 

Bill. 

Oh, but what I meant was 



Lady Patricia. 

(To Clare.) Your father tells me you are 
dining with us, Clare. I'm so glad ! 

Clare. 

If you don't mind me in this dress, Lady 
Patricia. Mr. Cosway has promised to show me 
the — er — what's its name ? 



64 LADY PATRICIA 

Michael. 

The spiral nebula in Andromeda. 

Bill. 

How much? 

Michael. 

A cluster of minute stars in the constellation of 
Andromeda. I say stars designedly. For I differ 
from many authorities in believing this nebula to 
be irresolvable or gaseous. Indeed, the remark- 
able observations of Sir William McKechnie leave 
no doubt in my mind that this so-called nebula is 
an external galaxy. In which case 

Bill. 

Oh, help ! So you still rot about with a tele- 
scope, Michael? 

Michael. 

(Coldly.) I am greatly interested in as- 
tronomy . 

Bill. 

(To Clare.) You, too? 

Clare. 

I like the stars. . . . 

(She turns loftily from him and talks to Mrs. 
O'Farrel and Michael.) 



LADY PATRICIA 65 

Lady Patricia. 

(To the Dean.) I'm so sorry ! (To CLARE.) I 
was trying to persuade your father to stay with 
3^ou, Clare. But he's bent on putting jfinishing- 
touches to to-morrow's sermon. 

Michael. 

(To the Dean.) I'll see Miss Lesley home, of 
course . 

Mi^s. O'Farrel. 

(3an we drop you at the Deanery? 

Dean. 

It's very kind of you. 

M],s. O'Farrel. 

(/ome along, Bill. Good-bye, all ! 

(She goes out. The Dean shakes hands with 
Lady Patricia and follows her.) 

Bill. 

(To Patricia, in a low voice.) I've left the 
cup and glass up the tree. (Aloud.) Good-bye, 
Cousin Patricia. 

Lady Patricia. 

Good-bye, Cousin Bill. 

Bill. 

Good-bye, Clare. 



66 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 

{Haughtily . ) Clare ? 

Bill. 

Yes. (To Michael, in passing.) Sorry about 
the saucer. Good-bye. 

Clare. 
Cheek ! 

(He goes out. A pause. Voices are heard 
below and the sound of a departing motor. 
Michael waves good-bye.) 

Lady Patricia. 

(Stretching out her arms.) Michael ! 

Michael. 

(Putting his arms about her.) Patricia ! And 
the poor head is really better, darling? I'm so 
glad you were able to sleep ! 

(Clare looks at them with bored contempt, 
shrugs her shoulders, goes to the tree, and 
starts climbing up it during the following.) 

Lady Patricia. 

And my sleep was full of dreams, Michael. 
Strange and mystic dreams — oh, and such beau- 
tiful dreams ! For they all led up to a vision of 
my dearest's face. (Clare has vanished aloft.) 

Michael. 

Heart of my heart ! 



LADY PATRICIA 67 

Lady Patkicia. 
Soul of my soul ! 

Michael. 

Patricia. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 
MichaeL . . . 

(Baldwin enters unnoticed with his saw and 
garden shears. He stares fixedly up the 
tree.) 

Michael. 

One night I shall find a new star in the depths 
of the sky 

Lady Patricia. 

One day I shall write a poem that will ring 
down the ages 

Michael. 

And the star shall be called Patricia. 

Lady Patricia. 

And the poem — Michael. 

Michael. 

(Lingering on the word.) Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

(Lingering on the word.) Michael ! 



68 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but there be summin' 
white movin' about up the tree. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Baldwin ! 

Baldwin. 

It a'most looks to me as though a young lady "ad 
climbed up the tree, sir. 

Michael. 

What on earth ! 



Clare. 

{Shrilly from above.) Don't you dare to look 
up here, Baldwin — nor you, Mi — Mr. Cosway ! If 
there's something white to be seen it's certainly 
not for you to look at ! (BALDWIN continues 
stolidly looking up.) D'you hear me, Baldwin? 
Oh ! Tell him to turn his head somewhere else. 

Michael. 
Baldwinll 

Baldwin. 
Yessir ? 

Lady Patricia. 

But, my dear child, what are you doing there? 

Clare. 

Birds'-nesting. 



LADY PATRICIA 69 

Michael and Lady Patricia. 
Birds'-nesting ! 

Clare. 

1 don't believe there's a nest here at alL He was 
simply kidding us. 

Baldwin. 

If it's h'eggs you're wantin', miss, there's a rare 
lot of 'em in the ivy up at the 'ouse. Sparrers — 
drat 'em ! 

Lady Patricia. 

(To Michael.) What an amazing young 
creature ! (To CLARE.) But you'll ruin your 
frock, my child. 

Clare. 

I can't help that. I mean to find out whether 
there's a nest here or not. Besides, I simply 
couldn't hang around while you and Mr. Cosway 
were canoodleing. 

Lady Patricia. 

(Puzzled.) Canoodleing? 

Clare. 
Spooning. 

Lady Patricia. 

How very vulgar you can be ! 



70 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 
Can't I ! 

Lady Patricia. 

(Shrugs her shoulders and speaks to MICHAEL 
tvith a plaintive languor.) I think it would be 
very pleasant to dine here, Michael. I'll go indoors 
and change into something warmer. 

Michael. 

You're not cold, my love? 

Lady Patricia. 

No, no, dear, no. But I might be later on. 
(To Baldwin, who has been staring fixedly into 
the branches.) What are you doing, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

It's main 'ard to keep a h'eye on the sun, m'lady, 
an' mine ain't no longer w'at they was. Might I 
arst, mum, if the sun's 'bout right for loppin' off 
they branches? 

Michael. 

Lopping off the branches ? 

Clare. 

(From above.) Oh ! I've found a cup ! 

Michael. 
A cup ! 



LADY PATRICIA 71 

Claee. 

And a glass ! 

Michael. 

A cup and a glass ! 

Lady Patricia. 

{Languidly.) Oh, I suppose Cousin Bill left 
them up there. You needn't trouble to bring them 
down, Clare. Baldwin can fetch them. 

Clare. 

He seems to have been doing himself uncommonly 
well. I daresay I shall find plates, knives and 
forks, napkins and finger-bowls. What ho ! 

Michael. 

{To Lady Patricia.) Has that fellow gone 
quite off his head ? 

Lady Patricia. 

{Going out.) Bill? Oh, no, dear! Oh, no! 
It's only youth — youth will out ! Beautiful rose- 
white youth ! 

{She gives him her hand to kiss, and he looks 
after her with a fatuous smile so long 
as she is in sight. Then you hear her 
singing below:) 

When all the world is young, lad, 
And all the trees are green, 

And every goose a swan, lad. 
And every lass a queen. 



72 LADY PATRICIA 

Then, hey! for hoot and horse, lad. 
And round the world away ! 

Young blood must have its course, lad, 
And every dog its day ! 

(Michael turns slowly from the railing, 
heaves a deep sigh, and stands ivith 
clenched hands, rigid, looking straight 
before him ivith tragic eyes. The beau- 
tiful voice grows fainter in the distance. 
The sun is westering on the right, and 
sheds a golden light on the scene. Bald- 
win stands staring out into the sunset.) 

Clare. 

(From above.) Mike ! 

Michael. 

Yes? 

Clare. 

Has she gone? 

Michael. 

Yes. 

Clare. 
Mike. 

Michael. 
Yes? 

Clare. 

Why is she like a collar? 



LADY PATRICIA 73 

Michael. 

I don't know. 

Clare. 

Because she's always round your neck. 

Michael. 

(With clenched hands.) Oh. . . . 

Clare. 

You and she are enough to make a saint ill. 
You ought to have more tact than to spoon about 
in public. (MICHAEL stands rigid.) Mike. 

Michael. 
Yes? 

Clare. 

Sulky ? 

Michael. 

No. 

Clare. 

What's up, then ? 

Michael. 
Nothing . 

Clare . 

I'm coming down. There's not a nest to be 
seen anywhere. By Jove, I am in a mess ! It's 



74 LADY PATRICIA 

iall your fault for driving me up a tree with your 
disgusting billing and cooing. 

Michael. 

{Hoarsely.) Don't. . . . 

Claee. 

Sorry. (MICHAEL makes a movement.) No, 
no ! Stay where you are ! And don't look up 
here. Oh, damn ! . . . Sorry ! But I've torn my 
frock and ripped open the hooks behind. All your 
fault . 

Michael. 

You shall have another frock. 

Clare. 
Thanks. 

Michael. 
Two frocks. 

Clare. 

No — one and a pinafore. Oh, confound this 
branch ! , . . I think the pater would draw the 
line at two frocks. 

{She descends into view, and jumps on to the 
ground. She is sadly dishevelled, her 
gloves filthy, her dress all open at the 
back, and with a great tear at the side 
of the skirt.) 

At last ! . . . Hullo, Baldwin, I thought you had 
gone. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 75 

Baldwin. 
No, miss. 

Michael. 

What are you doing here, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

The mistress's orders, sir. I was to keep a 
h'eye on the sun. 

(Clare laughs.) 

Michael. 

(Mystified.) Keep a h'eye on the sun? iWhat 
do you mean? 

(Clare laughs.) 

Baldwin. 

'Er ladyship said as I was to keep a h'eye on 
the sun, so as to lop away the branches. 

Michael. 

I don't understand in the least what you are 
talking about. Come back later on. 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. But the mistress's orders 



Michael. 

Yes, yes — a,nother time. I'm busy now. 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. . . . (He goes out slowly.) 



76 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 

(Exhibiting the damages in her dress.) And 
now perhaps, sir, you will keep a h'eye on me, 
while I show you the result of your 'andiwork ! 

Michael. 

My dear child ! . . . But in common fairness, 
you can't put all the blame on me. 

Clare. 

■Well, I shan't say anything more at present, 
since you're going to give me a new frock. (Look- 
ing at her hands.) Oh, dear ! I wish it were 
gloves . 

Michael. 

(With fascinated eyes.) A dozen pair. . . . 

Clare. 

All right — five and three-quarters. Now then — 
pins. 



Michael. 
Pins? 
















Clare. 
Yes, pins 


. Look alive 


I 












Michael. 
(Going.) 


I'll be back 


in a 


L moment. 








Clare. 

No, stay 


here. Your 


tie 


■pin 


will 


do 


for 


one. 



LADY PATRICIA 77 

I've a safety-pin here (fiddling at her waist), 
and another somewhere in my collar. . . . Bring 
a cushion here. 

Michael. 

A cushion? . . . 

Clare. 

(Still searching for her pins.) Yes — a cushion. 
(In a dazed way he fetches one from Lady 
PatricL4's chair.) Put it down. 

Michael. 

The cushion? . . . 

(He stands helplessly holding the cushion, then 
puts it bad' on the chair.) 

Clare. 

Don't play the giddy goat, Mike ! Put the 
cushion on the ground. 

Michael. 

Oh, yes — yes, of course 

(He places it at her feet.) 
Clare. 

Kneel down. 

Michael. 
Eh? 

Clare 

Kneel on the cushion. I want to spare your 
old joints. 



78 LADY PATRICIA 

Michael. 
Oh. . . . 

(He kneels with a mirthless laugh.) 
Clare. 

Now we'll see if you're worth your keep. Here 
are two safety-pins. Make that tear look respect- 
able. 

Michael. 
But 



Clare. 

If these safety-pins aren't enough, use your 
tie-pin. 

Michael. 

(Setting to work.) Very well. 

Clare. 

I shall want you afterwards to fasten up the 
hooks behind. . . . (A pause.) How are you 
getting on ? 

Michael. 

All right, thanks. 

(He works at her skirt for a moment in 
silence.) 

Clare. 

(Abruptly.) What's that boy like? 



LADY PATRICIA 70 

Michael . 
What boy? 

Clare. 

Bill OTarrel. 

Michael. 

He's given you a fair specimen of himself in 
the silly prank he played just now. 

Clare. 

Oh, that seemed to me rather a sporting thing 
to do, 

Michael. 

A sporting thing ! 

Clare. 

Yes. To make an utter ass of himself, and then 
carry it off with a string of lies. How are you 
getting on ? 

Michael. 

(Surveying his handiwork.) I think that looks 
better . 

Clare. 

It'll have to do, anyhow. . . . Now for the 
hooks. (Michael sets to work at the back of 
her dress.) Begin at the top. I daresay some of 
the eyes have got torn. I gave the dress an awful 



80 LADY PATRICIA 

wrench on the tree. Do the best you can. . . . 
Oh, don't fumble about like that ! 

(Michael's hands tremble as he works. A 
pause.) 

Michael. 

{hi a low voice.) Clare. . . . 

Clare. 
Well? 

Michael. 

I love you. . . . 

{A long pause. He stares with breathless 
expectation at the back of her head. She 
looks straight before her.) 

Clare. 

Have you finished all the hooks ? 

Michael. 

The hooks? . . . I — I beg your pardon. . . . 

(He goes on with his work for a time in silence.) 

Are you angry with me? 

Clare. 

I don't know. 

Michael. 

You must have known for some time that 1 
loved you. 



LADY PATRICIA 81 

Claee. 

(Turning on him.) Then why do you always 
annoy me by making love to — to your wife when 
I'm there? (MiCHAEL still kneels on the cushion, 
looJcing up at her with abject eyes.) Why don't 
you speak? 

Michael. 
Clare 



Clare. 

(With a sudden burst of laughter.) Oh, get up 
from that cushion ! You don't know what a fool 
you look ! (Michael gets up ivith a pained 
expression and stands staring tragically before 
him. A pause. She speaks in a gentler voice.) 
Well, Mike? 

Michael. 

Since I have spoken so much and done you 
wrong and Patricia wrong, I must tell you all and 
throw myself on your mercy. . . . When I 
married Patricia I sincerely believed I loved her. 
She seemed to me a kindred spirit — with her sensi- 
tive, beautiful nature. I found out too late that 
love depends as often on mutual difference as 
mutual sympathy. My love for her never went 
deeper than the intellect. Oh, the tragedy of it ! 
She is such a fair, white soul, and so worthy of 
my whole love ! . . . 

Claee. 

If you don't love her, why do you pretend to ? 
6 



82 LADY PATRICIA 

Michael. 

Can't you see — can't you see I have no olterna- 
tive? Patricia's love for me is unearthly in its 
depth and intensity. She worships me, little as 
I deserve it. If for one moment she thought my 
love had slackened, that moment would be her 
last. You don't know how sensitive she is. . . . 
Do you suppose, Clare, I enjoy playing this dread- 
ful game? But I must — it is my duty. I have 
sworn to love and cherish her. 

Clare. 

(After a pause, going up to him.) Michael, 
how long have you loved me? 

Michael. 

Almost since first I met you, you wild thing ! 
You soul of youth and incarnation of the morning ! 

(He looks longingly down at her.) 
Clare. 

Oh, you poor old thing ! (She looks up side- 
ways at him.) Mike, you may if you like. 

Michael. 

Clare. . . . (He hesitates.) 

Clare. 

Get it over soon. (He bends doivn and kisses 
her reverently, then turns away from her with 
tragic eyes.) Didn't you like it? . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 83 

Michael. 

But the wrong I am doing you, and the wrong 
I am doing Patricia. . . . 

Clare. 

But if Patricia doesn't know and I don't mind, 
I don't see where the wrong comes in. . . . Do 
you? 

Michael. 

{Taking her hands.) Do you love me, Clare? 

Clare. 

I don't know. . . . Yes, I think I do. You're 
such a solemn old donkey ! . . . Michael, if I 
love you, will it really make you a happier 
man? 

Michael. 

Happier? Oh, my dear, with the knowledge of 
your love I should be able to endure anything ! 

Clare. 

Even Patricia? 

Michael. 

Hush, Clare, hush ! . . . Patricia's is a pure 
and delicate soul. It is I who am unworthy, since 
I cannot return her wonderful love. . . . Little 
girl, do you understand that this love of yours 
may bring much suffering into your life ? I 
can never, by word or deed, change my attitude 



84 LADY PATRICIA 

towards Patricia — never ! She must never know 
that I do not love her. . . . And what of us? 
Our love must stand alone in the world. It must 
be something wholly pure and noble and self- 
sacrificing — the love that asks for nothing, that 
hopes for nothing — the love of the angels that 
neither marry nor are given in marriage. . . . 
Do you realise all this? 

Clare. 

Yes. . . . You see, Mike, I always believe in 
platonic love. 

Michael. 

{A little doubtfully .) Platonic. . . . 

Clare. 

Well, platonic lovers do kiss each other now and 
then . . . don't they? 

Michael. 

(Solemnly.) I believe they do, 

Clare. 

And, Mike. . . . 

Michael. 
.Well? 

Clare. 

I don't want you to give me that frock. 

Michael. 
But 



LADY PATRICIA 85 

Clare . 

Or the gloves. 

Michael. 

But why not, Clare? I don't understand. . . . 

Clare. 

Don't you, old boy? Neither do I. But I'd 
much rather you didn't — now. 

Michael. 

Surely, dear 

(Lady Patricia's voice is heard speaking 
beneath.) 

Clare. 

Hush ! . . . And I'm going home now. Dont 
try to prevent me, like a good chap. And I want 
to walk back alone. 

(Lady Patricia emerges speaking to Bald- 
win, who follows her.) 

Lady Patricia. 

We've come just at the wonderful moment, Bald- 
win. All the west is a ritual of gold. (She has 
a wrap over her of a wonderful sunset hue and a 
white lily in her hand.) Here's poor Baldwin 
deeply grieved because he's shooed away every 
time he gets to work ! 

Michael. 

He didn't seem to be doing anything particular, 
dearest, when I sent him away. 



86 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 
But, Michael 



(Baldwin, with his shears and saws, crosses 
to the right and examines the sunset.) 

Clare. 

Don't you remember he was keeping a h'eye on 
the sun? 

Lady Patricia. 

But, Clare ! What a dreadful state you're in ! 

Clare. 

I know. Your trees are shockingly dirty. You 
really ought to get Baldwin to scrub them with 
soap and water ! . . . Lady Patricia, I hope you 
won't think me very rude if I run away. I had 
quite forgotten it was father's sermon night when 
I accepted Mr. Cosway's invitation to dinner. I 
always help him with his sermons. 

Lady Patricia. 

You, my dear child ! 

Clare. 

I verify the quotations and prune the adjectives. 
. . . Then you'll forgive me ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Sweet girl ! (She stroJces Clara's unwilling 
face.) I'm very sorry, because I'm going to do 
such a wicked and decadent thing at dinner. You 



LADY PATRICIA 87 

see this lily? So virginal and nun-like ! I am 
going to put her into a glassful of wine and make 
her tipsy. 

Clare. 
Oh ! . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

You must come some other evening. We are 
hoth so very fond of you . 

Clare. 

Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Cosway. 

Michael. 

Are you sure, you don't want me to come with 
you? 

Clare. 

Quite, thanks. Good-bye. (She goes out.) 

Lady Patricia. 

She seems to be in a chastened frame of mind. 

Michael. 

Perhaps she's not quite well. 

Lady Patricia. 

(Holding out her hands to him.) Michael. . . . 

Michael. 

(Taking her hands.) Dearest ! 



88 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

It will be just — just you and I ! 

Michael. 

You and I, Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

You needn't stay, Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

(Who is still staring into the sunset.) Beg 
pardon, mum? 

Lady Patricia. 

You needn't stay. 

Baldwin. 

But if you'll excuse my sayin' so, mum, the 



sun 

Lady Patricia. 

Another time, Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Yes, 'm. (He goes out slowly.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Just you and I, Michael. . . . Kiss me. 

Michael. 

(Kissing her.) Just you and I. 

Lady Patricia. 

You and I and the sunset. . . . 

(End of the First Act.) 



THE SECOND ACT 



THE SECOND ACT 

Scene : — The same, except for an eodtra ladder 
which Lady Pateioia has had built up to the 
platform on the left. It is a beautiful night in 
early June. The full moon spreads a network 
of shadows on the platform, and a few large 
stars twinkle through the leaves. Suspended 
from the branches by pieces of silken string 
attached to nails driven into the trunk of the 
tree are several elaborate Chinese lanterns. 
Empty coffee-cups and liqueur glasses stand 
on two small tables i?i the background. There 
are one or two chairs about in addition to 
Lady Patricia's deck-chair. 

(When the curtain rises, Baldwin is seen 
slowly entering on the left. He has a 
bundle of small candles in his hand. He 
looks anxiously from lantern to lantern. 
Suddenly one of them goes out.) 

Baldwin. 

Ho ! (He unfastens the string from the nail 
and lowers the lantern with deliberation, mutter- 
ing.) Them little lanterns do burn uncommon 
quick. . . . iWhoa ! (Fixes fresh candle in the 

91 



92 LADY PATRICIA 



lantern.) Uncommon quick . . . drat 'em. . . . 
(Pulls up the lantern.) Whoa ! 

(While he fastens the string on to the nail 
Lady Patricia's voice is heard singing 
divinely in the distance. Baldwin listens 
for a moment. The singing ceases. He 
shakes his head gloomily, glances into the 
tree, and another lantern goes out.) 

Ho ! . . . (He lowers the lantern.) Whoa. . . . 
(Fixing the fresh candle.) They do burn 
oncommon quick — drat 'em. . . (Pulls up the 
lantern.) Whoa. . . . 

(After fixing the string, he retires slowly into 
the shadowy background a7id stands motion- 
less, staring from lantern to lantern. 
Suddenly Bill O'Farrel enters hurriedly 
by the ladder in the centre. He is in even- 
ing dress. He does not see Baldwin, who 
merely glances at him and then resumes 
his upward scrutiny. Bill throws himself 
into Lady Patricia's deck-chair.) 
Bill. 

Whew. . . . safe ! (He lights a cigarette.) 

(Suddenly close beneath Lady Patricia's 
voice is heard singing with desultory 
beauty. Bill springs to his feet.) 
Damn ! 

(He tiptoes cautiously to the edge of the plat- 
form and peeps over. The bird -like 
snatches of song grow nearer.) 



LADY PATRICIA 93 

Damn ! 

{He crosses softly and quickly to the ladder 
on the left, and with a scared look over 
his shoulder, disappears just as Lady 
Patricia, in a gown of shitnmering wonder, 
emerges by the ladder in the centre. She 
stops singing and looks around.) 

Lady Patricia. 

(Flutingly.) BilL . . . BilL . . . (She per- 
ceives the shadowy figure of Baldwin and makes a 
quick movement with outstretched arms towards 
it.) Ah, my dear ! 

Baldwin. 

Beg pardon, m'lady? 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh ! . . . Baldwin ! How amusing ! . . . I 
was looking for — Mr. Cosway. Has he been here? 

Baldwin. 
Yes'm. 

Lady Patricia. 
Oh, when ? 

Baldwin. 

'E took corfee 'ere with your ladyship, mum, 
and 'is Very Reverence, and the young lady and 
Mrs. O'Farrel and Mr. O'Farrel. 



94 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

Sometimes, Baldwin, I wonder whether your 
amazing futility may not be a conscious pose. 

Baldwin. 

Beg pardon, mum ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh, never mind. . . . 

(She goes out on the left, humming sweetly. 
Baldwin retires to the background and 
resumes his lantern watch. Clare enters 
by the central ladder quickly in breathless 
condition and drops into the deck-chair. 
Baldwin, unperceived, glances at her, then 
looks up at the lanterns again.) 

Clare. 

Safe ! (With a sigh of relief she lights a 
cigarette.) 

(Suddenly Michael's voice is heard beneath 
calling softly.) 

Michael. 

Clare — Clare. . . . 

Clare . 

Damn ! (She springs to her feet, crosses quickly 
to the left, and descends as Michael's head 
emerges up the central ladder.) 



LADY PATRICIA 95 

Michael. 

Clare. . . . {Looks around and perceives the 

vague form of Baldwin.) Clare, my Oh ! I 

was looking for Lady Patricia. Have you seen 
her, Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir . 

Michael. 

Oh. . . . Has she been here? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir. 

Michael. 
When ? 

Baldwin. 

Beg pardon, sir? 

Michael. 

{Impatiently .) When was Lady Patricia here? 

Baldwin. 

Well, sir, it may 'a been two minutes ago, sir, 
or it may 'a been 

Michael. 
Thank you. 

(Re goes out on the left, while Baldwin 
continues :) 



96 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Or it may 'a been three. 'Er ladyship were 

looking for you, sir. She arst me, sir {Fer- 

ceiving the vanity of continuing his reminiscences 
he looks up and a lantern goes out.) Ho ! 
(Lowers the lantern.) Whoa ! . . . 

(Enter Ellis iip the central ladder, carrying 
a tray with ivhislcy -and -soda.) 

Ellis. 

Good evening, Mr. Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Them candles do burn oncommon quick. . . . 
You was sayin', Mr. Ellis? 

Ellis. 

I said good evening. 

Baldwin. 

Whoa ! . . . (Fixes the string.) Good even- 
ing to you. 

Ellis. 

(Clearing coffee-cups, &c., and setting the 
whisky -and -soda.) It beats me what the company 
are up to to-night. After dinner they all went for 
a stroll down to the pond. 'Er ladyship wanted 
to see — (imitates Patricia) — "the great moon- 
flower's reflection among the lilies." Then they 
seem to 'ave separated. The old people are be- 
having themselves quite rational — playing bezique 
in the drawing-room. The others are playing the 
tomfool or 'ide -and -seek or something o' the sort. 



LADY PATRICIA 97 

Baldwin. 

'Iding-seek ? Are they now ! That minds me 
as 'ow I onct played 'iding-seek with Mrs. Baldwin 
as was my first wife — she weren't my wife then — 
an' found 'er — (lie chuckles) — and found 'er — 
(chuckles) — in the middle of the bed ! . . . 

(Ellis guffaws.) 

A rose bed it wer'. " Maidens' blush '' *' ' was, 
jest fur all the world same as 'er purtj moe. So 
I gives her sutting wot to blush for. That I did. 
Dang it ! Yus, I did. 

Ellis. 

You seem to 'ave lived your life, Mr. Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

I 'ave that. I've 'ad thirteen, an' two of 'em 
by me first wife. Thirteen's an onlucky number 
I've 'eard tell. But I ain't suspicious. 

Ellis. 

Su-per-stitious is what you mean, I take it? 

Baldwin. 

If I says suspicious I means it. 

Ellis. 

Well, please yourself, Mr. Baldwin, please your- 
self. My motter's " Live an' let live." Yes, as I 
was saying, it's a queer game of 'ide -and -seek 
they're playing at. I saw young O'Farrel just 
now by the yew-trees. 'E caught sight of 'er 
ladyship comin' up the path, and dived into the 



98 LADY PATRICIA 

shadder like a frightened rabbit. Bit queer con- 
sidering 'ow thick they are, I just stood aside 
to see if anything was going to 'appen. Then 'oo 
should come along but the master ! They must 
have caught sight of each other at the same time. 
She gave a sorter jump an' stood still. 'E cut 
and 'urried into the bushes. Then she turned and 
'urried back the way she'd come. What d'yer say 
toth.-^*^ 

Baldwin . 

iWhat do I say ? 

Ellis. 

Bit queer, ain't it? 

Baldwin. 

Chronic ! Why, a minute or two back 'er lady- 
ship was up 'ere an' says, " I'm looking lor Mr. 
Cosway." And arfter she's gorne, 'e comes up 'ere 
an' says, " I'm lookin' for 'er ladyship," 'e says. 

Ellis. 

Well, I give it up ! 

(Lady Patricia is heard singing in the 
distance.) 

There, she's at it again ! 

(Bill enters up the central ladder unper- 
ceived by the others. He stands in th^ 
background. They all listen to the sing- 
ing in silence until it ceases.) 
She can sing, an' no error ! 



LADY PATRICIA 99 

Baldwin. 

Minds me of an ole cat as used to yeowl night 
after night in the rubub beds. 

Ellis. 

Good Lord, Mr. Baldwin, 'ow d'you make that 
out? 

Baldwin. 

Course it ain't the same. 'Er ladyship's voice 
is a rare treat to 'ear, an' a cat's ain't. But there's 
somethin' in 'em both as seems to be callin' for 
somethin' else. 'Twas jest afore Mrs. Baldwin 
'ad 'er seventh. An' yer'd 'ardly b'lieve me, Mr. 
Ellis, that cat 'ad kittens same day as Mrs. 
Baldwin. 

(With a smothered laugh Bill comes forward. 
Ellis hastily picks up the tray with the 
cups, dc.) 

Bill. 

Ah, whisky -and-soda, Ellis. That's good ! 

Ellis. 

Yes, sir. (He goes out by the centre.) 

Bill. 

(Helping himself to whisky -and-soda.) Well, 
Baldwin, what are you up to? Keeping an eye on 
the sun so as to lop off the branches ? 

Baldwin. 

No, sir. . . .1 was jest watching them lanterns. 



100 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 

Yes. They're very pretty. 

Baldwin. 

They do burn uncommon quick. 

Bill. 

Well, they're made of paper, you know. 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. ... It was the candles I was alludin' 

of, sir. They do burn (A lantern goes out.) 

Ho! 

(He fiddles about ivith the string, Bill ivatch- 
ing him with a smile. Suddenly halfway 
up the central ladder you hear the voice 
of Lady Pateicia sweetly humming. 
Bill throws a wild glance aromid him.) 
Bill. 

Don't give me away, Baldwin. 

(He darts into the summer-house at the 
hack and locks the door.) 

Baldwin. 

'Iding-seek ! . . . (Lowering the lantern.) 
Whoa ! . . . 

(Lady Pateicia enters.) 

Lady Pateicia. 

Bill? . . . (Looks around.) Who were you 
talking to just now, Baldwin? 



LADY PATRICIA 101 

Baldwin. 

Mr. O'Farrel, mum. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Yes ; I thought so — but I don't see him. 

Baldwin. 
No, mum. 

Lady Patricia. 
Where is he? 

Baldwin. 

'E's gome, m'lady. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Gone? 

Baldwin. 

Yes'm. You gave yerself away, mum, you did 
D'rectly 'e 'eard your ladyship's voice 'e was gorne, 
mum. 

Lady Pateicia. 

(Amazed.) I gave myself away? Directly he 
heard my voice he was gone? 

Baldwin. 

'Twas like as when you come up 'ere before 
a-lookin' for the master. Mr. O'Farrel, 'e was 
'ere then, mum. 'E 'eard you, an' 'e jest ran. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Mr. O'Farrel heard me and he ran? 



102 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

Yes'm. An' if you'll h'excuse my sayin' so, 
mum, it ain't gumptious to sing when playin' 
'iding-seek. 

Lady Patkicia. 

Playing hide-and-seek? . . . 

Baldwin. 
Yes'm. 

Lady Patricia. 

Hide-and-seek ! What on earth are you talking 
about? I really am afraid, Baldwin, the full 
moon must have deprived you of your few remain- 
ing wits. Do you seriously mean to tell me that 
Mr. 'Parrel ran away twice because he heard me 
coming ? 

Baldwin. 
lYes'm. 

Lady Patricia. 

(After a dumbfounded pause.) Where did he 
go to? 

Baldwin. 

(Knowingly.) Beggin' yer pardon, mum, I 
really couldn't tell yer that. 

Lady Patricia. 

you 

(Clare enters on the left unperceived, and 
slips cautiously behind the trunk.) 



LADY PATRICIA 103 

Baldwin. 

I arst you, mum, would it be playin' fair on 
the young gentleman? 

Lady Patricia. 

(Edging rather nervously away from him.) I 
think you had better go home now, Baldwin. I am 
afraid you are not quite well. Tell Mrs. Baldwin 
to come and see me to-morrow. 

Baldwin. 
lYes'm . 

(Lady Pateicia goes out on the left, throw- 
ing a nervous look back at Baldwin, who 
nods his head triumphantly and pulls up 
the lantern. Claee emerges from behind 
the trunk and tiptoes towards him.) 

Baldwin. 
Whoa ! 

Clare. 
S-sh ■ 

Baldwin. 

Lord-a -mercy.! 

Clare. 

Language, Baldwin ! 

Baldwin. 

Yer did give me a turn^ niiss. 



104 LADY PATRICIA 

Claee. 

Sorry ! Hullo, drinks ! {Goes to the edge of 
the "platform and looks cautiously over.) The 
coast's clear. I'll have some soda-water. 

Baldwin. 

'Iding-seek do give you a bit of a thirst, miss. 

Claee. 

{Astonished . ) Hide-and-seek ? 

Baldwin. 

iYes, miss. 

Claee. 

iWhy, have you been playing hide-and-seek? 

Baldwin. 
Me, miss? . 

Claee. 

Didn't you say so just now? Really, Baldwin, 
for a person of your age ! And now you want 
a drink? Well, I've no objection, though it looks 
uncommonly as if you had helped yourself 
already. 

{She points to Bill's half-filled glass.) 

Baldwin. 

{Excitedly.) Me, miss? I give you my word, 
miss. Why, that's — ^that's 

Michael. 

{His voice is heard calling softly beneath.) 
Clare. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 105 

Claee. 

{To Baldwin, in a fierce whisper.) Hush ! 
Don't say where I am ! 

{She runs to the summer-house and gains the 
door just as Michael emerges up the 
central ladder. She finds the door locked. 
The key turns in the lock audibly, the door 
opens, and Bill's hand seizes her arm 
and pulls her inside.) 

Claee. 
Oh! . . . 

Bill. 
Hush! 

{Draws her into the summer-house, closes and 
locks the door.) 

Baldwin. 

{In unrestrained delight.) Haw ! Haw ! Haw ! 
Haw! 

Michael. 

{Looking around him.) Wasn't Miss Lesley 
speaking to you a second ago, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

She were, sir. Haw ! Haw ! 

Michael. 

{Regarding the amused Baldwin with 
severity.) .Where did she go to? 



106 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

She's gorne, sir. 

Michael. 

I asked you where she had gone to. 

Baldwin. 

No, sir ; I couldn't tell yer that, sir. I reely 
couldn't. (Re guffaws again.) 

Michael. 

Have you been drinking, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

Me, sir? Drinking? 'Pon me honour, sir, I 
ain't touched a drop o' that whisky. It's mortal 
'ard, sir, that a man o' my years should be tole 
'e's in liquor twice in one evenin' ! An' me teetotal 
'cept for me pint o' four-'arf at dinner an' supper 
and a drop o' somethin' on Saturday night. 

Michael. 

Do you know the day of the week, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

{After a pause.) Lor', sir, if it ain't Sat'day. 
. . . But I give you me word, sir, I ain't 

Michael. 

Very well, Baldwin. But you must admit that 
your conduct was peculiar. Perhaps now you will 
be so good as to tell me where Miss Lesley 
went to. 



LADY PATRICIA 107 

Baldwin. 

She — she {He starts laughing again.) 

Michael. 

Do you mean to tell me she has climbed up the 
tree again? 

Baldwin. 

Maybe she 'as, sir, an' maybe she 'asn't. Haw ! 
Haw.! 

Michael. 

(Angrily.) Fool ! (Goes to the trunk, and, 
standing in the shadow, looks up into the 
branches.) Clare. . . . Clare. ... I see you, 
you naughty little girl. . . . You've led me (a 
pretty dance to-night. . . . Clare. ... If you 
don't come down I'll climb up and fetch 
you. . . . 

^(Lady Patkicia enters quickly on the left.) 

Lady Pateicia. 

(To Baldwin, her finger on her lip.) Hush ! 

(She tiptoes quickly across the stage and seizes 
Michael by the shoulders.) 

Michael. 

Oh! (He faces her and falls back.) Patricia! 

Lady Patkicia. 

(Falling back an amazed step.) Michael! 



108 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

{In an ecstasy of glee.) The wrong man ! Oh, 
Lord ! Oh, Lord ! 

(Re doubles up with laughter. Lady 
Pateioia and Michael regard him in 
silent amazement and consternation.) 

Lady Patkicia. 

(To Michael.) I'm afraid he's 

(Touches her forehead.) 
Michael. 

Good God ! . . . 

Lady Pateicia. 

(Gently.) Don't you think it's better you went 
now, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

Oh, Lord ! Oh, Lord ! 

Michael. 

iYou ought to stay in bed to-morrow. 

Baldwin. 

Bed, sir? . . . 

Lady Pateicia. 

Or sit quietly in the sweet sunshine at your 
cottage door. 

Baldwin. 
Yes'm. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 109 

Lady Patricia. 

Good-night, Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Good-night, mum. Good-night, sir. 

{Ke walks stolidly to the ladder on the left; 
then, just before descending, starts once 
more guffawing and continues as he 
descends. Lady Patricia and Michael 
look at each other in pitying astonish- 
ment.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Poor old man ! I fear he is breaking uj) at 
last! 

Michael. 

God forgive me, dearest ; I thought he had been 
drinking . 

Lady Patricia. 

Let us make the twilight of his long day full 
of peace and fragrance. 

Michael. 

He shall never want. 
(A nightingale begins its song in the distance.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Ah, listen ! Ah, listen, dear heart ! 

Michael. 

The nightingale. 



110 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 

We have not far to go, you and I, to reach that 
land where music and moonlight and feeling are 
one! 

Michael . 

Music and moonlight and feeling 

Lady Pateicia. 
Are one. . . . 

Michael. 
Sweet bird ! 

{A pause. They listen " emparadised in one 
another's arms") 

Lady Pateicia. 

But where have you been, dearest? For the last 
half -hour I have been looking for you down 
shadowy paths and by moonlit waters. 

Michael. 

And I for you. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Cousin Bill went indoors as he had something 
he wished to say to his mother. So I seized the 
opportunity to find you. 

Michael. 

Miss Lesley left me to speak to her father^ — 
and I thought I would snatch a beautiful moment 
with my wife. 



LADY PATRICIA 111 

Lady Patricia. 

Cousin Bill said he would come back to me in 
iS moment. 

Michael. 

Miss Lesley too. I'm afraid they may be hunt- 
ing for us. 

Lady Patricia. 

Poor children ! But they will forgive us when 
they know we have been together — and so happy. 
Tell me, dear, why were you looking so fixedly 
up the tree when I came just now? 

(Michael lool{:s apprehensively towards the 
tree.) 

Michael. 

I — I was looking for a nightingale. 

Lady Patricia. 

A nightingale? . . . 

Michael. 

Yes. 

Lady Patricia. 

I thought for a moment some one had climbed 
the tree, as you seemed to be speaking up into it. 

Michael. 

I was making fluting sounds so as to encourage 
the bird to sing. 



112 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

How clever of you, dear ! And now it's sing- 
ing in the bushes near the pond. 

Michael. 

Perhaps I frightened it out of the tree. 

Lady Patricia. 

Perhaps you did. . . . Darling. 

Michael. 

Yes? 

Lady Patricia. 

Has it ever occurred to you that child may 
misconstrue your beautiful friendship for her? 

Michael. 

(Startled.) Clare ! 

Lady Patricia. 
JiColdly.) Clare? 

Michael. 

Er — Miss Lesley? 

Lady Patricia. 
Yes. 

Michael. 

Oh, Patricia, how can you think such a thing ! 
Our friendship is like the friendship of two men 
or two women, the elder tenderly guiding the 
younger towards a higher, saner, nobler, larger 



LADY PATRICIA 113 

view of life. {He glances apprehensively at the 
tree.) 

Lady Pateicia. 

Exquisite ! Ideal ! But haven't you noticed, 
Michael, that the child no longer accepts your 
companionship with the same frank pleasure as 
before? I have watched her lately. It seems to 
me as though she were always trying to avoid 
you. 

Michael. 

{Roused.) Avoid we.' Clare! 

Lady Pateicia. 

Do you call her by her Christian name? 

Michael. 

Only in moments of excitement. Avoid me ! 
Impossible ! 

Lady Pateicia. 

No, dear, not impossible. And when a girl 
pointedly avoids a man, it too often means — pursue 
me. 

Michael. 

{Distinctly relieved.) Ah ! . . . Ah ! yes. 
But I think you must be mistaken. 

Lady Patricia. 

Indeed, I hope so. But you must be careful. 
You are so attractive, Michael. 

8 



114 LADY PATRICIA 

Michael. 

Oh, nonsense, darling ! . . . Strangely enough, 
a week or two ago I was on the point of warning 
you in just the same way. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Warning me ? 

Michael. 

I used to watch that boy's eyes when he looked 
at you. They were the eyes of a loving spaniel. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Cousin Bill's? 

Michael. 

Yes ; and I felt sorry for him. But I think 
his infatuation was only temporary. 

Lady Pateicia. 

{Sharply.) Temporary? What do you mean? 

Michael. 

He no longer sits at your feet and follows you 
about as much as he used to. 

Lady Pateicia. 

You are quite wrong. His cousinly affection 
is the same now as it ever was. He was never 
in any way infatuated. 

Michael. 

How could he help it, dearest? You are so 
wonderfuLI 



LADY PATRICIA 115 

Lady Pateicia. 

Am I? I wonder! (A pause.) I think we 
really ought to join the others now, dearest. 

Michael. 

(With a glance into the tree.) Very welL 

(Lady Patricia, who has moved towards the 
ladder on the left, turns and notices 
Michael's upward gaze.) 

Lady Patricia. 
What is it, dear? 

Michael. 

I — I was looking for a star. 

Lady Patricia. 
Which star? 

Michael. 
Arcturus . 

Lady Patricia. 

But Arcturus is low in the west. 

Michael. 

How stupid of me ! 

{They go out. The stage is empty for a 
moment. The nightingale sings on. Then 
Baldwin enters — hurriedly for him — up the 
central ladder. He goes — softly for him 
■ — to the summer-house, after carefully look- 
ing over the edge of the platform to see 



116 LADY PATRICIA 

that the coast is quite clear. He listens, 
nods his head, and grins. Then he taps 
gently on the door and listens again. Re- 
ceiving no reply, he tups once more and 
listens. Finally he speaks in a husky 
whisper.) 

Baldwin. 

It's all right, sir. It's all right, miss. They've 
gorne. {The summer-house remains silent.) 
They've gorne. . . . It's all right, sir. (Taps 
at the door.) They've gorne. (Taps again after 
a pause.) They've gorne. . . . 

(The door suddenly flies open.) 
Bill. 

(In the doorway.) What the devil d'you want, 
Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. 

Beg pardon, sir ? 

Bill. 

What do you want ? 

Baldwin. 

The^^'ve gorne, sir. 

Bill. 

I can't help that, can I? 

Baldwin. 
No, sir. 

Bill. 

Well, then? 



LADY PATRICIA 117 

Baldwin. 

You see, sir, it's like this. I thought as 'ow 

Clare. 

{Invisible in the dark interior of the summer- 
house.) Oh, Baldwin, for the love of heaven, 
hook it ! 

Baldwin. 
'Ook it? 

Clare. 

Yes ; run away, like a dear. 

Baldwin. 

Very good, miss. 

(Baldwin goes out by the central ladder.) 

'Bill. 

(SpeaJcing into the summer-house.) Darling. 

tlLARE. 

(In the summer-house.) You've pulled all my 
hair down 

Bill. 
Oh, I 

Clare. 

I've lost at least six hair-pins. You needn't 
have been so rough. 

Bill. 

I'm awfully sorry, darling — but (He is 

about to re-enter the summer-house.) 



118 LADY PATRICIA 

Claee. 

No, stay where you are. . . . 

{She emerges from the summer-house, and 
moves past him to the front of the plat- 
form. Her hair is all loose and dis- 
hevelled. She starts shaking it out.) 
Bill. 

Darling 

Clare. 

Don't touch me. . . . 

Bill. 

Clare! . . . 

Clare. 

Please find those hair-pins, and the two side- 
combs. They're all real tortoise-shell. 

Bill. 

But I say 

Clare. 

Find those hair-pins, or, at any rate, the side- 
combs . 

Bill. 

Oh, all right. . . . 

(He goes into the summer-house, strikes a 
match, and searches about the floor for the 
missing hair-pins. Clare stands plaiting 
her hair into a " pigtail," and looking 
straight before her with very grave eyes.) 



LADY PATRICIA 119 

Bill. 

{Half to himself while searching.) Here are a 
couple. . . . By Jove ! one of 'em's got rammed 
tight behind the seat. . . . Another — that's three. 
. . . Four ! . . . I've found one of the side- 
combs. ... I say, they are jolly pretty ! . . . 
Where the deuce has t'other one got to? . . . Oh, 
Lord, I'm awfully sorry ! It's smashed. I put my 
clumsy hoof on it. . . . {He joins her at the 
front of the platform.) 

Clare. 

It's all right. . . . 

Bill. 

But (Looks at her with puzzled eyes.) I 

say, darling, is anything the matter with you? 
(Puts his arm around her.) A moment ago 

Clare. 

(Freeing herself.) You must never call me 
that again. 

Bill. 

Call you what? 

Clare. 

" Darling." 

Bill. 
But 

Clare. 

Or put your arm round me. . . 



120 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill. 
But 

Clare. 

(Passionately.) Oh, Bill, I was mad — I lost 
my head — I forgot. ... It was so — so thrilling 
in there. ... I should never have let you — I 
should never have let you. . . . 

Bill. 

But I — I only kissed you. 

Clare. 

You — you 

Bill. 

And told you that I loved you. 

Clare. 
Yes. . . . 

Bill. 

And you said you loved me. . . . 

Clare. 
I didn't ! 

Bill. 

You kissed me. 

Clare. 

That's not the same thing. 

Bill. 

Then you don't love me ? 



LADY PATRICIA 121 

Claee. 

I never said so. 

Bill. 

Do you love me, Clare? 

Clare. 

I should never have kissed you if I didn't. 

Bill. 

Clare ! {Tries to take her in his arms.) 

Clare. 

{Decidedly.) No. . . . 

Bill. 

No? . . . 

Clare. 

I am not free. 

Bill. 

Not . . . free. . . . Then you're — you're — 
engaged ? 

Clare. 

No. 

Bill, 

No? . . . But 



Clare. 

I am not free. 

Bill. 

But you're not engaged? 



122 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 

No. 

Bill. 

Clare ! You don't mean — you can't mean that 
you are married? . . . 

Clare. 
Married ? 

Bill. 

Yes — married ! 

Clare. 

Don't be silly. 

Bill. 

That's no answer. Are you married? 

Clare. 

Of course I'm not. 

Bill. 

You're neither engaged nor married — but you're 
not free to marry me. What does it all mean? 

Clare. 

You must be content with that. 

Bill. 

Must I? Then you don't know me. I'll give you 
no rest — I'll persecute you night and day till I 
get at the truth. 

Clare. 

(After a pause.) You may be right, Bill ; 



LADY PATRICIA 123 

perhaps I do owe you an explanation since I 
allowed you to kiss me. . . . 

Bill. 

And kissed me. ... 

Clare. 

(Tragically.) I belong to another man. . . 

Bill. 

But you said just now 

Clare. 

Whom I can never marry. . . . 

Bill. 
\What! 

Clare. 

Because he is already married. 

Bill. 

{Horrified.) Clare ! you — ^you 

Clare. 

{Loftily.) Our bond is purely of the spirit. 

Bill. 
Eh? 

Clare. 

(Unconsciously imitating Michael's manner.) 
He is a noble and high-souled gentleman. His life 
is one long self-sacrifice for the woman whom he 
married. She loves him, and for her sake he 



124 LADY PATRICIA 

fought against his love for me. But that love 
mastered him : he confessed it. I told him it 
was returned, though I knov^ nov^ it was the pity 
and friendship I felt for him which I mistook for 
love. iWe promised to be true to each other. I 
cannot — I dare not break my promise. My love is 
all he has to make life bearable. . . . 

(Bill is about to speak when Lady Patkicia's 
voice, singing in the distance, brings him 
up ivith a jerk. He listens a moment. 
When he speaks his tone is one of 
dismay.) 
Bill. 

Great — Scott ! 

Claee. 

(Coldly.) I beg your pardon? 

Bill. 

I say, Clare, d'you know I've made an ass of 
myself in just the same way as you ! 

Clare. 

An ass? . . . iWill you kindly explain your- 
self. 

Bill. 

I had no right to tell you I loved you, because 
I am bound to another woman. 

Clare. 

Not — not to a married woman? 



LADY PATRICIA 125 

Bill. 

A married woman. . . . 
Clare. 

Oh, how dreadful ! 
Bill. 

Our bond is purely of the spirit. 
Clare. 

Oh? . . . iWhat is she like? 

Bill. 

Noble and high-souled like your 

Clare. 

Is she pretty ? 

Bill. 

Oh, yes, she 

Clare. 

Did you love her? 

Bill. 

Till I met you five weeks ago I believe I did. 

Then I Anyhow, I'm afraid I'll have to stick 

to her. If I threw her over now I don't know 
what the poor woman would do. 

Clare. 

You have a pretty high notion of your attrac- 
tions. 

Bill. 

And you of yours. 



126 LADY PATRICIA 

Claee. 

You appear to forget that I am a woman. 

(You hear Lady Pateicia's voice just beneath 
talking to Michael. Bill exclaims with 
a scared look :) 

She's coming here ! . . . • 

Claee. 

iWell? . . . (With dawning comprehension. 
She seizes his arm.) Bill — you don't mean to say 
that she 

(Michael is heard replying to Lady 
Pateicia. Claee whispers with startled 
eyes :) 

That's he ! 

Bill. 

(Staring at her.) That's Michael. . . . Good 
God ! Clare, it's not — it's not Michael that you 

Claee. 

Hush ! . . . They're going past. . . . 

Bill. 

(In a fierce undertone.) The blackguard ! 

Claee. 

What do you mean? 

Bill. 

If I Jiadn't been a blind fool, I would have seen 
through this precious friendship for you long ago. 



LADY PATRICIA 127 

It never dawned on me that the fellow was such 
a scoundrel. And a precious hypocrite, too, by 
Jove ! Playing up so as to make that poor, 
trusting woman believe him madly in love with 
her. . . . 

Claee. 

That poor, trusting woman? Are you, by any 
chance, speaking of Patricia? 

Bill. 

Of course I am. Hanging about her neck while 
all the time he's making love to an innocent girl ! 
It's perfectly disgusting ! 

Claee. 

And what has your noble, high-souled Patricia 
been doing, I should like to know? Shamming 
infatuation for poor Michael to hide her shameful 
flirtation with a callow boy. 

Bill. 

It was not a shameful flirtation — and I'm no 
more a callow boy than you are. 

Clare. 

What amazes me is that you should ever have 
allowed yourself to be fooled by a shallow, deceit- 
ful poseuse like Patricia. 

Bill. 

She hasn't fooled me. She's deeply and truly 
in love with me. 



128 LADY PATRICIA 

Claee. 

Contradiction isn't argument : it's merely rude. 

Bill. 

If it had been any one else but Michael there 
might have been some excuse for you. But 
Michael! How could you? A dull, priggish 

ass 

Clare. 

He's not a dull, priggish ass ! 

Bill. 

Contradiction isn't argument : it's merely rude. 

Clare. 

How dare you speak to me like that ! 

Bill. 

(Sulkily.) I beg your pardon. 

(He moves away from her, and they both stand 
staring in opposite directions.) 

Clare. 

{After, a pause.) I don't think there's anything 
more to be said. 

Bill. 

Neither do I. 

(A pause.) 
Clare. 

Nothing. 



LADY PATRICIA 129 

Bill. 

Nothing. 

(A pause.) 
Clare. 

Things must remain as they are. 

Bill. 

Yes, I suppose they must. 

{A pause.) 
Clare. 

Of course, any one who was at all unprejudiced 
would see at once the — the higher morality of my 
decision , 

Bill. 

The what? 

Clare. 

The higher morality. Michael has often told me 
that our pure love and the fact that he does his 
duty as best he can to his wife are the only 
things that keep him from suicide. . . . 

Bill. 

{Under his breath.) Bosh ! 

Clare. 

I beg your pardon ? 

Bill. 

Nothing. . . . It's awfully funny to think of 
Michael spooning away with you and Patricia 
and boring you both to death without knowing it. 

9 



130 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 

I don't see that it's any funnier than Patricia 
doing the same with you and Michael. 

Bill. 

Well, anyhow,, I shall have to stick to Patricia — 
not because of " higher morality " — whatever that 
means — but because I know she would pine away 
if I left her now. 

Clare. 
Tchah ! 

{They stand miserably silent, looking in oppo- 
site directions. The nightingale starts 
singing, and sings through the next scene. 
The voices of the Dean and Mrs. 
OTarrel come up from beneath.) 

Mrs. OTarrel. 

Well, I find it chilly. Dean — distinctly chilly. 

Dean. 

For Whitsuntide, dear lady — surely not. True, 
Whitsuntide is very late this year. . . . 

(Mrs. 'Parrel enters, folloived by the 
Dean, up the central ladder.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Why, here's the child! All alone, my dear? 
Whatever have you been doing to your hair? 

Clare. 

It's such a hot night I had to take it down. 



LADY PATRICIA 131 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Hot? 

Dean. 

But, my dear child, you can't possibly go home 
like that ! 

Clare. 

I'll put it up when I get back to the house. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Perceiving Bill.) Is that my son? 

Bill. 

(Gloomily.) Hullo, mater. . . . 

Dean. 

Enchanting night, my boy ! 

Bill. 

(As before.) Awfully jolly. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

And where are the others? 

Clare. 

I don't know. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Sentimentalising in the moonlight. . . . 

Clare. 

I suppose so. 

(Mrs. O'Farrel regards both the young 
people critically through her lorgnette.) 



132 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

(Breezily.) And what have you two been up 
to? 

Bill. 

Mootching around. 

Clare. 

Playing about. 

Dean. 

Your mother and I thought we'd like a little 
stroll before going home. 

Bill. 

Good idea. . . . 
(The Dean fixes his monocle, and, slightly 
puzzled, scrutinises them each in turn.) 

Mrs. O 'Parrel. 

What's the matter with you both? 

Bill and Clare. 
The matter? . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Have you been quarrelling? 

Bill and Clare. 
Quarrelling? . . • 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

You're as sulky as two bears. 

Bill and Clare. 
I? 



LADY PATRICIA 133 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

As two bears. Aren't they, Dean? 

Dean. 

Sulky ? No, no ; surely not sulky ! Chastened ! 
Thoughtful ! A little overcome, perhaps, by the 
beauty of the night — as all sensitive young souls 
should be. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

H'm ! . . . Sensitive young souls ! . . . 

(Lady Patricia, followed by Michael, enters 
on the left.) 

Lady Patricia. 

All of you ? But how charming ! How de- 
lightful ! 

Dean. 

Dear Lady Patricia ! 

(Michael moves towards Clare, who evades 
his ardent gaze.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

iWliat have you been doing with yourselves? 

Lady Patricia. 

Looking at the guelder-roses in the moonlight, 
and wondering whether they were guelder-roses at 
all or great pearls. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Personally I should say they were guelder- 
roses. 



134 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

Ah, but dear Aunt Eileen, how can you tell 
what pranks the fairies may not play on such a 
night as this? 

Dean. 

iWhat an exquisite fancy ! 

Bill. 

(Who has been looking jealousy at Clare and 
Michael. He speaks defiantly ivith eyes on 
Clare.) I say, Cousin Patricia. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 
Yes, Cousin Bill? 

(Clare looks at them.) 
Bill. 

If it wouldn't bother you too much, I wonder 
if you'd care to take me to have a look at those 
thingumybob roses. It would be simply corking ! 

Lady Patricia. 

I shall be charmed. Cousin Bill. We'll settle 
the question of guelder-rose or pearl together. 

{They move towards the ladder on the left.) 

Clare. 

{In a low voice to Bill as he passes her.) 
Worm! {In a defiant voice to Michael.) Mr. 
Cosway, you've never shown me the — the what's - 
its -name. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 135 

Michael. 

The spiral nebula in Andromeda? It's scarcely 
favourable for a view of the nebula to-night. Shall 
we look at the mountains of the moon ? 

Clare . 

Thanks awfully. 

(She and Michael move to the central 
ladder.) 

Lady Patricia. 

(To Bill as they descend on the left.) Do you 
believe in fairies, Cousin Bill? 

Michael. 

(To Clare as they descend the central ladder.) 

I have often wondered how the night would look if 
we had nine moons like Jupiter. 

(A pause. The Dean looks disapprovingly 
after the disappearing Bill, Mrs. 
O'Farrel through her lorgnette after 
Clare.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
H'm. . . . 

Dean. 

I beg your pardon ? . . . You were saying ? . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I didn't say anything. I was thinking. 



136 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Ah, thinking — yes, thinking. ... So was I. 
. . . By the way, Eileen, your — er — cherished 
project for marrying Clare to your son doesn't 
appear to be materialising quite — er — satisfactorily. 

Mrs. OTarrel. 
No, it doesn't. 

Dean. 

Not quite as smoothly as we — as you hoped. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Give me a whisky -and -soda. 

Dean. 

A whisky 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
And soda. 

{The Dean pours out a drop of whisky.) 

Go on. . . . 

{The Dean sets the syphon going.) 

Nearly full. . . . When ! . . . And you had 
better take something as well — to fortify yourself 
against what I am going to say. 

Dean. 

Ah. ... A little soda-water. {Helps him- 
self.) So you are going to be unpleasant, my dear 
Eileen ? 



LADY PATRICIA 137 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I am. Those two had been quarrelling just 
now. 

Dean. 

That was evident — even to me. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

They had been quarrelling bitterly — and I can 
make a shrewd guess at the cause. 

Dean. 
I also. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Indeed. Well, I think it's high time to speak 
plainly. 

Dean. 

I quite agree with you. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I'm glad to hear it. . . . Bill had very 
evidently been taking your daughter to task for 
her amazing indiscretions. 

Dean. 

Amazing indiscretions? Clare's? Will you 
kindly be more explicit. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I mean to be. Perhaps you remember some 
weeks ago I warned you that her intimacy with 
Michael Cosway ought to be stopped? 



138 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Certainly. And I took leave to disagree with 
you entirely. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Well, you were wrong. You should immediately 
have put an end to this intimacy — to use the 
mildest word for her friendship with Michael. 

Dean. 

Mrs. O'Farrel, is it possible you are speaking of 
my daughter ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

And it's your duty to put an end to it at once. 
I only hope that you may not be too late. 

Dean. 

This — this — this is beyond anything ! . . . Per- 
haps you will be so good 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Now then, Dean, pray don't lose your temper. 
It's neither wise nor becoming, and at our age 
very bad for the heart. Listen to me quietly for 
a moment. I refused for a long time to believe 
any ill of this — er — friendship. I knew Michael to 
be infatuated with his wife, and Clare to be a 
healthy -minded girl. But last week Emily Fitz- 
gerald told me she had seen Michael walking in 
the Stanton Woods with his arm around Clare's 
shoulder. She added that the affair was becoming 
quite notorious in the neighbourhood. . . . You 
must act, and act at once. 



LADY PATRICIA 139 

Dean. 

Is that all ? So you condescend to listen to the 
tittle-tattle of a notorious old gossip like Emily 
Fitzgerald ? Upon my word I'm ashamed of you ! 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

Dean ! Have you taken leave of your senses ? 

Dean. 

I might well put that question to you, Mrs. 
O'Farrel. But I refrain from vulgar tu quoque 
repartee. I have no more to say except to warn 
you that before looking after the morals of my 
daughter, you had far better look after those of 
your son. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
My son? 

Dean. 

Precisely — your son. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

What do you mean ? 

Dean. 

I and others — unlike yourself, I will not drag in 
the names of outsiders — have for some time past 
watched your son and Lady Patricia with grief 
and dismay. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Patricia ! 



140 LADY? PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Just now you believed your son had been imper- 
tinently taking Clare to task for her charming 
friendship with Michael Cos way. I am convinced 
you were mistaken. It was Clare who had been 
warning your son that his indiscretions were be- 
coming the talk of the place. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Bill entangled with Patricia ! And Clare — Clare 
preaching propriety ! It's too laughable ! A boy's 
innocent homage for a woman at least ten years 
his senior ! You're a very foolish old man. 

Dean. 

Again I put away from me the tu quoque retort. 
. . . Add two and two together. I don't for a 
moment blame her. I can't find it in my heart 
to blame her. The dear and beautiful creature is 
as God made her : exquisitely sensitive, senti- 
mental and infinitely affectionate. . . . But I warn 
you, Mrs. O'Farrel, I warn you. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I refuse to hear another word. You ought to be 
ashamed of yourself ! . . . And the saddest part 
of the whole affair is my poor boy's undoubted 
affection for your daughter. 

Dean. 

Affection for Clare ! I don't believe it ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Are you his mother? 



LADY PATRICIA 141 

Dean. 

Certainly not ! . . . But I have watched him 
— with the result that I am convinced of his 
infatuation for Lady Patricia. 

Mes. O'Fareel. 
Fiddle -sticks ! 

Dean. 

And I may as well tell you, though you will not 
believe it, that my poor girl's affections are centred 
on your son. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh, dam' foolishness ! 

Dean. 

This has gone far enough, Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Quite far enough. I am going home. 

Dean. 

So am I. 

(Followed by the Dean, Mrs. O'Farrel 
moves towards the central ladder. Sud- 
denly he stops, hurries on tiptoe to the 
back, and looks cautiously over the railing. 
He whispers:) 

Eileen ! . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

What is it? 



142 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Hush ! . . . Clare's coming here with Michael 
Cos way. I offer you a chance to substantiate the 
aspersions you have made against her character. 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

What do you mean ? 

Dean. 

We will conceal ourselves in the summer-house 
and hear what they have to say to each other. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Really, Dean ! 

Dean. 

We may disregard the rules of ordinary morality 
in a situation like this. I speak professionally. 
Quick ! (He draws her towards the summer - 
house.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Well, upon my word ! . . . 

(They go into the summer-house, and sit with 
the door open, but invisible in the gloom 
of the interior. Voices are heard beneath. 
Then Clare enters on the left, followed 
by Michael.) 

Clare. 

Father ! . . . (She looks around her.) Why, 
they've gone ! . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 143 

Michael. 

They must have returned to the house. 

Claee. 

We had better go too. 

Michael. 

Oh, Clare, a moment. . . . Look at me, dear. 
. . . {He takes her hands.) 

Claee. 
Well? 

Michael. 

Are you unhappy ? 

Claee. 

Why should I be? 

Michael. 

You are no longer the wild and buoyant thing 
you were. You have grown so pensive and dis- 
trait. And is it my jealous imagination? — so often 
lately you have seemed to avoid me. . . . 

Clare. 

I — I'm sorry ... 

Michael. 

There's trouble in your eyes, my dearest. Clare, 
do you chafe at the restrictions fate has put on 
our love? 

Claee. 

Oh, I — I don't know. I'm all right, Michael — 



144 LADY PATRICIA 

but you We'd better go in now. Father's 

waiting for me. 

Michael. 
Clare. 

Claee. 
Yes. 

Michael. 

Kiss me before you go. 

Clare. 

Oh, not now. . . . 

Michael. 

{Bending down to her.) Kiss me, dear. 

{She kisses him perfunctorily on the cheek ; he 
sighs; she turns and descends the ladder 
on the left; he follows her.) 

How sweet it is ! . . . 

Clare. 

Sweet ? 

Michael. 

Your " pigtail," dear. The sight of it makes me 
feel a boy again. I should like to pull it and 
run away. 

(Clare laughs and they both descend out of 
sight. A pause. The nightingale starts 
singing. Mrs. O'Farrel emerges from 
the summer-house. Her step is almost 



LADY PATRICIA 145 

jaunty with suppressed triumph, and her 
manner elaborately off-hand. The Dean 
remai7is invisible in the summer-house.) 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

Ah, the nightingale ! How charmingly it sings 
CO -night ! ... I do wish we had some nightin- 
gales at Ashurst. I suppose they prefer low- 
lying ground like this. . . . Do they sing in your 
garden at the Deanery ? 

(The Dean comes out of the summer-house in 
a very crestfallen condition.) 

Dean. 

Eileen 



Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Cheerfully.) Yes? 

Dean. 

This is dreadful — dreadful. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

On the contrary, I think it's most delightful ! 
One can hear every note so perfectly at this 
elevation. 

Dean. 

Is it generous of you— is it generous of you, 
Eileen, to flaunt your terrible triumph like this? 
I am heart-broken ! I am distracted ! What on 
earth am I to do? 

10 



146 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Pouring him out a whisky -and -soda.) Drink 
this! 

Dean. 

(Pettishly.) I don't care for whisky. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh, you needn't make such a fuss ! It's per- 
fectly obvious from what we saw just now that 
no real harm has been done. The way she kissed 
Michael — - — (She bursts out laughing.) 

Dean. 

How can you, Eileen? How can you? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

It reminded me of a child taking castor-oil ! 
. . . But Michael — the double-faced hypocrisy of 
the man ! I'm really very sorry for Patricia. 

Dean. 

I don't see the necessity for lavishing sympathy 
on her. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

What do you mean? Doesn't she believe he 
returns her devotion? 

Dean. 

Her devotion doesn't prevent her philandering 
with other men, as I told you just now. 



LADY PATRICIA 147 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Well, upon my word ! I wouldn't have believed 
it ! In spite of this gross example of your obtuse- 
ness, you still have the — the audacity to stick to 

your slander against Bill ! Really I (She 

stops short, listens, then hurries to the hack and 
looks over the railing. She turns to the Dean 
and speaks in a quick ivhisper.) We must hide 
in the summer-house. . . . 

Dean. 

Eh ? What ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

At once ! Bill and Patricia are returning here. 
You will see for yourself there's nothing more 
between them than cousinly regard. 

Dean. 

I refuse to eavesdrop a lady. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

But you deliberately did it a moment ago. 

Dean. 

Clare is my daughter. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Fiddlesticks ! {Pushes him before her.) Quick 
now ! 



Dean. 

I submit- 



that 



148 LADY PATRICIA 

Mes. O'Farrel. 
Hush! 

Dean. 

— Under protest. . . . 

{She shepherds the Dean into the summer- 
house just as Patricia and Bill co^ne 
up the central ladder.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Cousin Bill and I have discovered that guelder- 
roses are guelder-roses after all. . . . Why, Bill 
dear, they're not here ! 

Bill. 

Got impatient, I suppose, and went back to the 
house. About time we did the same. It's getting 
late. 

Lady Patricia. 

(Dreamily.) Too late, too late! Ye cannot 
enter now! 

Bill. 

What d'you say? 

Lady Patricia. 

I was quoting Tennyson. 

ill. 
^Oh. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 149 

Lady Patricia. 

You know the lines, don't you? Listen : 

Late, late, so late! and dark the night and 

chill ! 
Late, late, so late, but we can enter still! 
Too late, too late ! Ye cannot enter now ! 

So sweet and sad, are they not? Don't you love 
sweet, sad things? 

Bill. 
Rather. 

Lady Patricia. 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest 
thought. 

Bill. 

Rather. ... I say, hadn't we better be going? 

Lady Patricia. 

Bill. ... 
Bill. 

Yes. 

Lady Patricia. 

{Her hands on his shoulders.) Do you love me 
as you used to? 

Bill. 

I say, why d'you — you don't think 

Lady Patricia. 

No — no — no — ah, no ! I know well enough that 



150 LADY PATRICIA 

your love is deeper and stronger than it was. 
But this sacred love — this hopeless love of ours 
has swept you suddenly into manhood. You are 
no longer a boy ; you are graver ; you are sadder. 
. . . And if sometimes you seem to avoid me now, 
it's due to no cooling of passion, but to the fear 
lest the pent-up lava at your heart should over- 
flow and ruin us both. 

Bill. 

I say, you do put things awfully well ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Petrarch and Laura — Paolo and Francesca — 
Lancelot and Guinevere. . . . Bill — no, William 
and Patricia. . . . Ah, my poor boy, put your 
arm around me, and say those lines of Lovelace 
that I taught you. 

Bill. 

Oh, I say — ^really, you know On my honour, 

I've forgotten 'em. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

No, no ! You're merely shy — bashful — boyish ! 
I love to hear you say that verse. (She starts 
him.) Yet this 

Bill. 

Yet this— yet this What's the word? 

Lady Patricia. 

Yet this inconstancy 



LADY PATRICIA 151 

Bill. 

{In a self-conscious sing-song.) 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you, too, shall adore; 
I could not love thee, dear, so much. 

Loved I not honour more. 

Lady Patricia. 

Loved I not honour more. . . . Love — duty 

— honour {She sighs deeply.) Come, 

dear. . . . 

{They go out on the left. A pause. The 
Dean comes out of the summer-house. He 
barely conceals his triumph under a mask 
of outraged propriety. MRS. O'Farrel 
follows him.) 

Dean. 

H'm. . . . Cousinly regard. ! . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

It's shocking ! Outrageous ! 

Dean. 

It is indeed. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

— That you shouldn't even pretend to hide your 
satisfaction at the scene we have just witnessed. 

Dean. 

Satisfaction ! I assure you, dear lady, I'm 
shocked and grieved — deeply grieved, that your 
son should prove capable of such depravity. 



152 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

My son ! You know as well as I do that the 
foolish boy has been bewitched by that un- 
principled woman. 

Dean. 

Come, come, Eileen. In common fairness we 
should apportion the blame equally— though, in- 
deed, my experience has generally led me to the 
conclusion that the man is more to blame in these 
cases than the woman. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Your experience ! Quite so ! ... I shall give 
Patricia my plain, unvarnished opinion of herself 
and forbid her my house. You will tell Michael 
that he's a scoundrel and a libertine. 

Dean. 

No, no, no ! Tact, tact, my dear Eileen, tact 
and diplomacy ! . . . Let us calmly review the 
position. Cosway's and Lady Patricia's relations 
with Clare and your son, though highly culpable, 
appear to be blameless of the worst, and con- 
siderably more — er — ardent on the part of the 
married couple than of the single. So much is 
— er — unhappily evident. Now, do you still main- 
tain that your son is — er — interested in Clare? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
I am certain of it. 

Dean. 

Incredible ! Of course, I Tinoiv — ^in spite of 



LADY PATRICIA 153 

appearances — that Clare feels strongly for your 
son. 

Mes. O'Fareel. 
Fudge ! 

Dean. 

Now, my dear Eileen, pray don't fall back on 
contradiction. What we have both got to do is 
to bring these young people together 

Mrs. O'Fareel. 

Hush ! D'you hear? {She goes quicMy to the 
hack and looks out. A pause.) All four of 
them ! Of course, they went up to the house to 
look for us. . . . What shall we do? 

Dean. 

Ah ! (Goes to the railing at the back.) Allow 
me. . . . (Calls.) Clare. . . . 

Clare. 

(Beneath.) Hullo ! . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Excitedly.) But are you going to let them 
know - ' i 

Dean. ' ; 

T beg you, Eileen, to sit down and control your- 
self. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Well, but I should like to know 

Dean. 

Will you kindly entrust the conduct of the 



154 LADY PATRICIA 

situation entirely to me. Take your cue from 
me, and above all, be tactful and dignified. (He 
sits down with unction.) 

Mes. O'Faeeel. 

I really believe you are thoroughly enjoying 
yourself. 

Dean. 

Pray don't be flippant, Eileen. This is a very 
serious matter. 

(He crosses his legs and fixes his eyeglass as 
Claee enters 2ip the central ladder 
folloived by Lady Pateicia, Bill, and 
Michael.) 

Claee. 

We thought you had gone back to the house. 

Dean. 

Indeed . 

Lady Pateicia. 

I really believe they went to depreciate the 
guelder-roses as well ! 

Mes. O'Faeeel. 

.We did nothing of the sort, Patricia, and let 

Dean. 

Kindly allow me, Mrs. O'Farrel. . . . No, 
Lady Patricia, we have not been to examine the 
guelder-roses. We have been all the time here. 

Lady Pateicia, Bill, Michael, Claee. 
Here ! . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 155 

Dean. 

We have been all the time — here. 

Michael. 

But — but I returned a short while ago, and you 
were certainly not here then. 

Dean, 

Excuse me, sir — we were. 

Clare. 

But we never saw you. . . . 

Dean. 

That I can quite believe. We, however, saw 
you and Mr. Cosway quite distinctly. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Most distinctly ! And I 

Dean. 

Allow me, Mrs. O'Farrel. . . . 

Bill. 

But, I say 

Dean. 
Sir? 

Bill. 

You can't have been here a minute or two ago 
when Patri Cousin Patricia and I 

Dean. 

Pardon me, sir — we were. 

Bill. 

But, I say, you must have hidden yourselves 
somewhere, because 



156 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Your mother and I were sitting in the summer - 
house. 

Bill, Clare. 
Oh ... ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Oh ! ... O — oh ! . . . {She gropes for a chair, 
she sits down heavily.) 

Michael. 

What — what is the matter, dear? 

Lady Patricia. 

Nothing. . . . I — I am a little faint 

Michael. 

The — the night is certainly oppressive. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

I — I'm all right now. . . . 
(A pause. The nightingale starts singing.) 

Dean. 

{To Clare.) I think it is high time to go. 
. . . Did you see whether the carriage had 
arrived ? 

Clare. 

Yes, it's there. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Come, Bill, we must be getting home. 



LADY PATRICIA 157 

Dean. 

{Solemnly.) I have several weighty additions 

to make to my sermon to -morrow — additions which 

certain events to -night have suggested . I trust 

you will all be at the Cathedral for morning 

service. {An awkward silence. The Dean waves 

his hand towards the central ladder.) Mrs. 

O'Farrel. . . . (MRS. O'Farrel passes and 

descends.) Clare. . . . (Clare passes him and 

descends. He says with impressive unconcern:) 

The nightingale sings most divinely to-night ! 

{He goes out, Bill following him with a 

hang -dog air. Baldwin enters on the left 

just as Lady Patricia and Michael move 

to the central ladder.) 

Baldwin. 

If you please, sir. . . . 

Michael. 

What is it, Baldwin? What is it? 

Baldwin. 

If you please, sir, will you be using them 
lanterns agin to-night? 

Michael. 

No. 

Baldwin. 

Then I 'ad better take 'em down, sir? 

Michael. 

Yes, take them down. {To Lady Patricia.) 
Come, dear. 

(Baldwin starts fiddling about with the 
strings of the lanterns.) 



158 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateioia. 

(Wearily.) Yes, darling. 

Baldwin. 

(Lowering the first lamp.) Whoa ! . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

(SjyeaMng in a passionate whisper.) Will you 
love me, Michael, always — always — and no matter 
what may happen? 

Michael. 

(Taking her hands.) I? How can you ask? 
But you — could you still love me if — if 

Lady Patricia. 
If ? 

Michael. 

If I were unworthy? 

Lady Patricia. 

You! 

(They descend the central ladder.) 

Baldwin. 

(Lowering the second lantern.) Whoa ! . . . 
(He blows out the candle and folds the lamp up. 
Then he goes leisurely for the next lantern and 
lowers it.) Whoa ! . . . (He blows it out, folds 
it up and goes for the next lantern and the curtain 
descends while he is lowering it. When it rises 
again, he says :) Whoa! . . . (And folds it up .) 

(End of the Second Act.) 



THE THIRD ACT 



THE THIRD ACT 

Scene -.—The Deanery garden. At the hack is a 
wing of the Deanery, red -bricked, Norman- 
arched, ivith mullioncd ivindoius and a heavy 
door opening on to the lawn. On the right, 
three-quarters across the background, the house 
ends, and an old niachicholated wall begins, 
with a great brass -studded double gateway in 
the middle of it, in the left side of which is a 
wicket with grating. The door opens on the 
Deanery Close and a view of the Cathedral 
in the distance. The garden is all lawn, flower- 
bed, and old trees. From the great door, and 
running diagonally across the stage and out to 
the left in front, is a stone-flagged path. 
Another path from the house-door joins it 
about the centre of the stage. On the lawn 
in the foreground stands a table spread for 
breakfast, with two chairs beside it. It is 
a brilliant Sunday morning in June. 

{When the curtain rises, John, the Dean's 
butler and verger of the Cathedral, and 
Robert, the page, are putting finishing 
touches to the breakfast -table. After a 
moment the Dean enters and goes to the 
table.) 

11 161 



162 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

What a morning ! Fragrant ! Exquisite ! Ha ! 
{Re sniffs the air appreciatively, fixes his eye- 
glass and beams around Mm.) A happy Whitsun, 
John. 

John. 

Thank you, sir. Same to you, sir. 

Dean. 

Eh ? ... Oh, certainly ! 

John. 

Yes, sir. It's mornings like this, sir, that one 
feels a inclination to sing the tedium. 

Dean. 

To sing the — er ? 

John. 

The tedium, sir. 

Dean. 

The Te Deum ! Ah, yes, to be sure ! To sing 
the Te Deum. Most appropriate ! (Looks at his 
watch.) A quarter to ten. 

John. 

Yes, sir. It's highly significant to see so many 
people at early service this morning, sir. Highly 
significant. (Robert goes out.) 

Dean. 

Ah, yes ! ... Is Miss Clare in the garden ? 



LADY PATRICIA 163 

John. 

I believe she is, sir. 

Dean. 

Well, she'll be here in a minute. I think, as it's 
rather late, I had better begin at once. Is this 
all you're giving me to-day, John? 

John. 

Oh, no, sir. There's an omelette with asparagus- 
tops to come. 

Dean. 

Good. Very good ! In the meantime these 
delicious fruits. (Sits at the table.) 

John. 

Yes, sir. If you please, sir, Mr. Cosway's gar- 
dener was here this morning before you came back 
from church. As far as I could gather he had 
some message from her ladyship which he refused 
to leave. I gathered he had instructions to give 
it to you direct, sir. 

Dean. 

Oh . . . ah . . . h'm. ... Is he here now? 

John. 

No, sir ; I told him to come back at ten o'clock. 
He's gone to the cemetery to visit the grave of his 
first wife. 

Dean. 

Bring him here when he comes. 



164 LADY PATRICIA 

John. 

Very good, sir. 

(John goes into the house. The Dean daintily 
skins a peach, humming getitly, " Every 
morn I bring thee violets." After a 
moment Clare enters from the left, a 
hunch of pink and white may in her hand. 
She is obviously in a shocking temper.) 

Clare. 

Good morning, father. 

Dean. 

Good morning, Clare. May ! Is it for me? 

Clare. 

You can have it if you like. 

{She lays it beside his plate and sits down.) 
Dean. 

Thank you, my dear. Fragrant, delicately- 
tinted, fresh and dewy as young girls. {He regards 
her critically.) But you don't look quite yourself, 
my child. 

Clare. 
I? 

Dean. 

A little tired. Perhaps you slept badly ? 

Clare. 

I'm as fit as a fiddle, and I slept like a log. 



LADY PATRICIA 165 

Dean. 

These peaches are delicious. Try one. 

Clare. 

Aren't there any cherries yet? 

Dean. 

I'm afraid not. " Fruits in due season," you 
know, my dear ! 

Clare. 

What about your peaches? 

Dean. 

That's different, quite different. An early peach 
cannot be too early. They live in glass houses 

Clare. 

(Significantly.) And don't throw their stones. 
. . . I'll have a cup of tea. 

Dean. 

There's an omelette with asparagus-tops on the 
way. 

Clare. 

I'm not hungry. 

Dean. 

Oh, that's a pity ! I suppose it's this excep- 
tionally early summer. 

Clare. 

Yes. I was unbearably hot all night. And so 
thirsty that I drank nearly all the water in my 
jug. 



166 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Dear me ! Wasn't there any in the carafe ? 

Clare. 

I drank that as well. 

Dean. 

Eeally ? It seems to me that for a log you were 
somewhat restive last night. 

Clare. 
A log? 

Dean. 

I thought you slept like a log 

Clare. 

I scarcely slept a wink . 

Dean. 

Well, well, my dear, so long as you feel — to 
use your expression — as fit as a fiddle, it 

Clare. 

I feel rotten. 

(John enters with the omelette, Robert with 
'plates.) 
Dean. 

I'm sorry. I didn't go to bed until very late my- 
self. Those little additions to my sermon took me 
longer than I had anticipated. (JOHN and ROBERT 
go out, having placed the dish before the Dean.) 
This looks most inviting. And as there doesn't 
seem to be much of it, I'm not, on the whole, 



LADY PATRICIA 167 

sorry that you've lost your appetite this morning ! 
It's an ill wind that 

Clare. 

May I have some, please? 

Dean. 

Changeable young person ! 

Clare. 

Well, of course, if you grudge me a little piece 
of your omelette 

Dean. 

Not at all, my dear ! Not at all ! 

{Re offers her a liberal helping.) 
Clare. 

You needn't give me three-quarters of it. 

Dean. 

Very well. You had better take the other piece, 
then. 

Clare. 

Oh, it doesn't matter ! 

{Impatiently she takes the larger helping.) 
Dean. 

{Genially .) I don't mind confessing that I'm 
very hungry, so unless you really want it, my, 
dear 



Clare. 

Oh, for goodness' sake, father, take the whole 



168 LADY PATRICIA 

lot ! I'm sure I don't want to deprive you of your 
food ! 

Dean. 

What a peppery young lady it is ! I was only 
joking. 

Clare. 

I may be sadly lacking in humour, but jokes 
about omelettes and the condition of one's stomach 
never much appealed to me. 

Dean. 

Really, my dear child, I should much prefer 
your not using that word. 

Clare. 

Stomach ? 

Dean. 

Yes. 

Clare. 

Oh ! I do hope you're not going to suggest 
I should say " Little Mary " ! 

Dean. 

(Puzzled.) Little Mary? I — er — don't quite 
see the connection. ... Is there any reason for 
alluding to that — er — portion of the anatomy? 

Clare. 

I was under the impression that you made the 
first allusion to it. 



LADY PATRICIA 169 

Dean. 

My dear, I merely mentioned the fact that I 
was hungrj'. 

Clare. 

Well, you're not hungry with your foot, are 
you? 

Dean. 

Don't you think this bickering rather silly and 
childish ? 

Clare. 
Very. 

Dean. 

{After a pause, and ivith a change of voice hut 
unabated cheerfulness.) Unclouded sunshine and 
a sense of deep peace and repose ! My ideal of 
an English Sunday ! John told me just now that 
he feels inclined to sing the Te Deum on mornings 
like this. 

Clare. 

Why don't you come to the point, father? 

Dean. 

The point? ... 

Clare. 

Yes. 

Dean. 

I don't quite understand. 



170 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 

I think you owe me some explanation of your 
extraordinary action last night. 

Dean. 

My extraordinary action ! . . . 

Clare. 

Yes — 'in deliberately hiding yourself in the 
summer-house to overhear a private conversation. 

Dean. 

You amaze me, Clare ! Instead of being grate- 
ful for my silence on the events of yesterday, you 
turn on me as though you had a grievance ! My 
action was amply justified by the circumstances. 

Clare. 

I don't see how eavesdropping can ever be justi- 
fied. And now j^ou're bent on giving us " beans " 
from the pulpit. I'm awfully sorry to have to 
say it, father, but really it's rotten bad 
form. . . . 

Dean. 

We won't discuss the matter any further. Be- 
lieve me, I am the best judge of my actions. 

Clare. 

And I of mine. 

Dean. 

You refer to the unhappy discoveries Mrs. 
O'Farrel and I made last night? 



LADY PATRICIA 171 

Claee. 
I do. 

Dean. 

Certainly, if you're heartily ashamed of your- 
self, you're a competent judge of your actions. 

Claee. 

I'm not in the least ashamed of myself. 

Dean. 

Then, my dear child 

Clare. 

And why should I be ? I've done nothing 
wrong. 

Dean. 

You have done very wrong indeed. But I don't 
wish to exaggerate. Of course, I know this has 
been nothing more than a foolish flirtation. Repre- 
hensible — most reprehensible. A grave error, but 
scarcely a sin. We will say no more about ^it. 
. . . One thing, however, I am bound to insist 
upon after what came to my knowledge last night. 
You must have nothing more to do with that young 
man. 

Clare. 

What young man ? Michael's forty, if he's a 
day. 

Dean. 

I was not speaking of Mr. Cosway. Honestly, 



172 LADY PATRICIA 

your future relations with him don't cause me 
acute anxiety. I was alluding to young O'Farrel. 

Clare. 

(Sitting up.) Bill! 

Dean. 

I think, my dear, we will leave the use of his 
Christian name to the unhappy lady — or ladies — 
with whom he is intimate. Certain facts have 
come to my knowledge. He is not a fit companion 
for a young girl. Your acquaintance with him 
must cease from to-day. 

Clare. 

Oh ! . . . And may I ask what he has done ? 

Dean. 

It is quite superfluous to go into — er — un- 
savoury details. 

Clare. 

You seriously expect me to cut him because 
he doesn't quite meet with your approval? 

Dean. 

I expect you to obey me implicitly. 

Clare. 

(Rising.) I had better tell you at once, father, 
that I shall do nothing of the kind. 

(The gateway hell rings.) 



LADY PATRICIA 173 

Dean. 

Clare ! (The Dean looks at the gateway and 
lowers his voice.) You forget yourself! 

Clare. 

His crime hasn't by chance anything to do with 
Patricia ? 

Dean. 

H'm — well, since you appear to know something 
about this, it would be — er — affectation on my part 
to deny it. His conduct has been shameful, out- 
rageous, and ungentlemanly. 

Clare. 

His conduct has been splendid. That detestable 
creature got hold of him somehow, and he behaved 
perfectly from start to finish. Of course you side 
with her because you think her pretty. But 

Dean. 

We won't discuss the matter any further, my 
child. You are very young and headstrong and 
inexperienced, and must learn to repose implicit 
faith in your father's judgment. You are not to 
see this young man again . 

Clare. 

I'm sorry, father, but I refuse to obey you. 

Dean. 
Clare ! 

Clare. 

It's grossly unjust — ^it's mean and horrid. I 



174 LADY PATRICIA 

won't do such a caddish thing even for you. I 
am going to see him now. 

(John enters and goes to the gateway.) 

Dean. 

CJare, remember I have forbidden it. 

Clare. 

{Beside herself.) I don't care ! I'm going to 
him now ! I won't go to church to be preached at. 
I'm going to him. You can turn me out of your 
house, if you like, father. But I won't obey you. 
I won't. {She storms into the house.) 

Dean. 

Clare, how dare you ! {Directly she has dis- 
appeared, he laughs heartily.) Oh ! Most satis- 
factory . 

{He changes plates and commences on Clare's 
untoucJied omelette. John, who has looked 
through the grating and recognised Bald- 
win outside, goes to the Dean.) 
John. 

Mr. Cosway's gardener has just called again, 
sir. 

Dean. 

Very well. Bring him round. 

John. 
Yes, sir. 

{He goes to the gateivay and opens the wicket. 
The Dean continues eating his breakfast. 



LADY PATRICIA 175 

Baldwin enters in Sunday broadcloth and 
a broad -brimmed, black, soft felt hat. He 
carries an abnormally large prayer-book 
and hymn-book.) 
John. 

Mr. Baldwin, sir. (JOHN goes out.) 

Dean. 

Ah. . . . Good morning, Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 
Mornin', sir. 

Dean. 

You have a message for me from her ladyship ? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir. 

{He places his two books on the ground, plunges 
into his right-hand breast-pocket and pro- 
duces a letter.) 

I would 'a lef ' this at the door, sir, without troublin' 
you, but 'er ladyship when she give it me said 
most particular as I was to 'and it to you personal, 
sir. 

Dean. 

Quite so. Quite so. 

{Opens the envelope and reads.) 
Baldwin. 

{After fumbling in the left-hand breast-pocket, 
produces a second letter.) And 'ere's the other 
letter, sir. 



176 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Eh, what? Another? 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. As I was leavin' 'ome, the master come 
up and give it me, and said most particular as I 
was to 'and it to you personal. 

Dean. 

Oh. . . . (Takes the letter and reads it 
through.) Er — thank you. ... I understand 
you've been to visit the grave of the late Mrs. 
Baldwin ? 

Baldwin. 

I 'ave that, sir. She was a good wife to me, 
sir, though she did give me ondly two. . . . I've 
'ad thirteen, sir, an' two of 'em by 'er. 

Dean. 

Thirteen ! Excellent ! Excellent ! 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. Thirteen's an onlucky number, I've 
'eard tell, but I ain't suspicious. 

Dean. 

(Laughing gently.) And how many of the 
thirteen are girls, Baldwin? 

Baldwin. 

Nine of 'em, sir — leastways, I think as 'ow nine 
of 'em is female. (He tots them off on his fingers.) 
H'Annie, and H'Effel, 'Enrietta, Louisa, Maggie, 



LADY PATRICIA 177 

Victoria . . . H' Alice. . . . H'Edith. . . . 
an' — an' Milly. Yessir — nine. The rest is boys. 

Dean. 

Nine ! Dear me ! What a terrible responsi- 
bility. Their upbringing must have been very 
trying. Nine ! 

Baldwin. 

Yessir. They do give a bit more worry than 
boys. But Mrs. Baldwin's a rare 'and at tacklin' 
'er own sects. 

Dean. 

Oh, really? And what measures did she take 
when they were fractious and disobedient? 

Baldwin. 

She 'anded 'em over to me, sir. 

Dean. 

And what did you do ? 

Baldwin. 

I thrashed 'em. 

Dean. 

Did you really ! That never dawned on me as a 
practical measure. ... I wonder — I wonder 
whether all girls would derive benefit from — er — 
occasional chastisement. 

Baldwin. 

You take my word for it, sir. All my girls 'ave 
gorne straight and married respec'able. 

12 



178 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean. 

Gone straight and married respectably ! All 
nine of them ! . . . And do you put down this 
happy result to your special treatment? 

Baldwin. 
Yessir. 

Dean. 

Most interesting ! Most interesting ! I must 
think it over — I must indeed. . . . 

(John enters ) 
John. 

Mrs. O'Farrel has called, sir. 

Dean. 

Oh. . . . Ask her out here, John. 

John. 

Very good, sir. (He goes out.) 

(The Dean takes up the letters and glances 
through them. A pause. He looks up and 
sees Baldwin standing patiently watching 
him.) 
Dean. 

Ah, Baldwin — yes. . . . What was I sajdng? 

Baldwin. 

You said as you'd think it over, sir. 

Dean. 

Oh, to be sure ! Physical chastisement for girls. 
Quite so. 

(Enter John from the house followed by Mrs. 
O'Farrel.) 



LADY PATRICIA 179 

John. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. (He goes out.) 

Dean. 

(Rising with outstretched hands.) My dear 
Eileen ! This is a most unexpected pleasure ! 

Mrs. O'Fareel. 

Nonsense. You guessed I should turn up. 

Dean. 

Well, I may have hoped it. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Good morning, Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Mornin', ma'am. 

Dean. 

Baldwin has been giving me sage advice on the 
up -bringing of girls . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
You need it. 

Dean. 

He's a great advocate of — er — corporal punish- 
ment. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh ! . . . That's all very well when they're 
in short frocks, Baldwin. But afterwards, I don't 
exactly see how 

Dean. 

Quite so. . . . 



180 LADY PATRICIA 

Baldwin. 

I thrashed Milly when she was turned twenty, 
mum. 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

Upon my word ! What on earth had the girl 
done? 

Baldwin. 

Mrs. Baldwin found 'er sittin 'on Constable 
'Iggins' knee — 'e was a married man, as you may 
remember, sir, and 'e 

(Mrs. O'Farrel bursts ovt laughing.) 

Dean. 

{Hastily.) Yes, yes, yes, Baldwin. . . . 
Neither of these notes requires an answer, thank 
you. Good morning. 

Baldwin. 

Mornin', sir. Mornin', ma'am. 

(Re goes out slowly, inadvertently leaving his 
books on the ground. Mrs. O'Farrel is 
still amused.) 

Dean. 
Well? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Well? . . . 

Dean. 

I said it first. 



LADY PATRICIA 181 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
And I'm a woman. 

Dean. ' 

True. To begin with I've just received these 
two notes. {Hands her the letters.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Opening a letter.) From Patricia ! . . . Now 
I really wonder whether this terribly agitated 
handwriting is put on. 

Dean. 

Be generous, Eileen ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

tWhat on earth does the woman mean by scrawl - 
ing " Sunrise " on the top of the page? 

Dean. 

Presumably that was when she wrote the letter. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh, I see ! She wants you to believe she paced 
her room in wakeful agony all night. (Reads.) 
"Sunrise. I have need of confession. I will call 
at the Deanery before morning service — PATRICIA 
Cos WAY." Confession ! Evidently she means to 
enjoy herself ! . . . (Opens the other note and 
reads.) " Dear Dean, — I am calling on you before 
morning service to-day. I trust, in spite of all 
that has happened, you will not refuse to receive 
me— Michael Cos way." Very interesting. What 
do you intend to do ? 



182 LADY PATRICIA 

Dean, 

Honestly, I haven't made up my mind yet. 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

I protest against your giving Patricia and your- 
self the luxury of private confession. She owes 
me her precious confession, not you. Have her out 
here, and we'll trounce her together. 

Dean. 

Poor woman ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Fiddle-de-dee ! She's having the time of her 
life, I wonder whether they've confessed to each 
other. 

Dean. 

I shouldn't think so — but I mean that they 
shall . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

So do I. . . . Well, Dean, I've had it out with 
my son. 

Dean. 
Ah. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Driving home last night I talked about the 
likelihood of a thunderstorm, Creme de Menthe and 
lawn -tennis, and made him thoroughly uncomfort- 
able. 



LADY PATRICIA 183 

Dean . 

Then you said nothing about 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Not a word. And we both went to bed. He 
came down to breakfast in a shocking temper. I 
cheerfully exhausted two tedious subjects : the 
House of Lords and domestic servants. Suddenly 
he lost his manners — cut me short — and plunged 
into the sad story of Patricia and himself. . . . 
Now, I'd had time to think the matter over ! I 
treated the whole thing as a youthful peccadillo 
and mildly suggested he had better put an end 
to it. The poor dear boy was completely floored. 
I'm sure he'd prepared himself against a regular 
tornado. He simply sat there and stared at me. 
. . . Then abruptly I turned the conversation on 
to your daughter. 

Dean. 
Eh? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I described her conduct as scandalous, herself as 
a hussy, and wound up with a burst of gratitude 
that he'd been Patricia's victim instead of hers. 

Dean. 

Most remarkable ! And what did the young 
man say? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

He dazzled me with an amazing flare-up. Ex- 
hausted his vocabulary on my injustice and Clare's 



184 LADY PATRICIA 

perfections, and stormed out of the room, leaving 
me with tingling ears. 

Dean. 

And now? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Presumably he's gone in search of this maligned 
young woman . My blessings attend on him ! . . . 
Well, Dean, I'm a brilliant and original tactician, 
what? 

Dean. 

Brilliant, certainly — original, no ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

No? 

Dean . 

Not ten minutes ago I adopted precisely the 
same tactics with Clare and achieved precisely 
the same result. She's searching for your worth- 
less son at present. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Upon my word, I should never have credited 
you with so much sense ! 

Dean. 

My dear Eileen, I put down the tragedy of so 

many women's lives 

(Enter John.) 
John. 

{Aymouncing .) Lady Patricia Cosway. 
{Enter Lady Patricia. 8he is dressed in 
black from head to foot. John goes out.) 



LADY PATRICIA 185 

Dean. 

(Rising.) Lady Patricia, this is indeed an 

Mrs. O 'Parrel. 

No, Dean ; it's neither unexpected nor a 
pleasure. 

Dean. 

I must really beg of you, Eileen ! (To 
Patricia.) Won't you sit down? 

Lady Patricia. 

(Who has heen standing at the hack in an 
attitude of majestic humility. She speaks ivith 
^pleading dignity.) Do you refuse me your 
hand? . . . 

Dean. 

(At her side, and taking her black-gloved hand 
in both of his.) My dear lady ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Ah. . . . You were always large-minded and 
gentle and tolerant. . . . Aunt Eileen. . . . 

Mrs. O 'Parrel. 
Well? 

Lady Patricia. 

They told me you were here, so I came out. 
I am determined to speak before you both. It 
was not what I had meant to do. I had hoped 
to lay bare my secret soul in secret to the Dean. 
Deliberately I have chosen the fiercer ordeal. For 



186 LADY PATRICIA 

I expect and deserve no sympathy from you, no 
mercy, no forgiveness, no understanding. . . . 

Mes. O'Farrel. 

I think I understand you well enough, Patricia. 

Lady Patricia. 

But do you? Oh, do you? Can any one so 
sane and practical understand this living paradox? 
Can prose ever understand poetry ? I am the 
refined essence of spirit and sense. I am a thing 
of fire and dew. I have in me the making of a 
great saint and a great courtesan. . . . 

Dean. 

{Hurriedly.) Yes, yes; we quite under- 
stand. . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Go ahead, Patricia. 

Lady Patricia. 

If you really understand, my task will be so 
much the easier ! For understanding is the be- 
ginning of sympathy. And sympathy ends in 
forgiveness. . . . Dean, Aunt Eileen — will you be 
patient and listen to me for a moment? 

Dean. 

Of course we will. But won't you sit down? 

Lady Patricia. 

I should prefer to stand. 



LADY PATRICIA 187 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

It's more effective, Dean. 

Lady Patricia. 

What you overheard yesterday gave you only 
a crude outline of my tragedy and sin. All the 
colour, all the light and shadow were missing ; 
and without these you are bound to misjudge 
me. . . . Ah ! don't believe for a moment I am 
seeking to justify myself ! No ! No ! There can 
be no real justification for my sin. . . . But I do 
want your understanding — I do want your pity — 
I do want your pardon. And from you. Dean, I 
have come for punishment — for penance 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Hand her over to Baldwin. 

Lady Patricia. 
Baldwin ? 

Dean. 

Eileen ! I beg of you ! 

Lady Patricia. 

On the surface my marriage has been perfect. 
Michael is the husband of old romance, steel-true, 
chivalrous, and devoted — oh ! as no man was ever 
devoted to a woman before ! (MRS. O'Farrel 
and the Dean exchange significant glances.) But 
he just lacked what the depths of my complex 
nature cried out for — passion, simplicity, primeval 
energy. These he hadn't in him to give, and I 



188 LADY PATRICIA 

wanted them, not knowing at first what I wanted. 
... But when Bill came into my life — I knew — 
I knew . . . and we rushed together, drawn by 
the mystic gravitation of alien soul for soul. 

Mrs. O'Faerel. 

A moment, Patricia. I understand that my son 
has " primeval energy." I've never noticed it 
myself. What are its manifestations? 

Dean. 

Don't you think we can leave that to — er — the 
imagination ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh ... by all means ! Then what do you 
mean by "rushing together"? 

Lady Patricia. 

I use the expression metaphorically . . . 
spiritually. (With sudden drama.) Dean — Aunt 
Eileen — I swear to you by all that is beautiful 
and sacred that our love has been pure. You 
believe me? Ah, say you believe me ! 

Dean. 

Why, of course we do ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

If you swore to the contrary, I should call you 
a liar ! You've neither the strength nor the 
courage to do more than play with sin. 



LADY PATRICIA 189 

Lady Patricia. 

I? I ! Oh, how little you know me ! Had you 
looked into my heart when first this temptation 
stole upon me you would have never said any- 
thing so foolish. . . . Shall I ever forget those 
long nights of battle when my skin was dry and 
fevered — my pillow wet with tears? I lived with 
clenched hands and bitten lip, and fixed my 
thoughts steadfastly on high and holy things. 
Yes, I fought the good fight well — and if I was 
half defeated ... I am but human. ... At 
last it came — the day came when I lost the battle. 
. . . Spring was in the air, sweet perfumes of 
budding and burgeoning things . . . above my head 
a blackbird fluted ... I had an early snowdrop 
in my hand. He looked at me ; I felt his eyes 
devouring my face. Slowly I lifted mine — our 
eyes met — and no force on earth could have torn 
them apart ; and the world reeled and sang about 

us Oh, and that bluer blue, that greener 

green! . . . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

That bluer blue— that ? 



Lady Patricia. 

Stephen Phillips. . . . Ah, that moment ! 
was mad — I was drunk with love and spring ! 

Dean Well ? 

AND {Excitedly interested . ) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. Yes? 



190 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patetcia. 

Fate intervened and saved us. 

Mrs. O'Farrel and Dean. 

(Unfeignedly disappointed.) Fate? 

Lady Patricia. 

Baldwin returned with the water. 

Dean and Mrs. O'Farrel. 
The water? 

Lady Patricia. 
For the snowdrop. 

(The Dean coughs. Mrs. O'Farrel solemnly 
scrutinises PATRICIA through her lorg- 
nette.) 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Doesn't it occur to you that was rather funny? 

Lady Patricia. 

Funny ? No, oh no ! I see a certain ironical 
humour in such banal intervention. But it's far 
too mysterious to be called funny. After that 
I struggled no more against the stream. I drifted ; 
I was carried down the great ocean of love. But I 
never once faltered in my high resolve to keep that 
ocean pure, and 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Ocean ? What ocean ? 

Lady Patricia. 
The ocean of love. 



LADY PATRICIA 191 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Sorry ; my fault. 

Lady Patricia. 

To keep that ocean pure, and come what might, 
to shield Michael from the least suspicion that his 
wonderful love was not returned. Deceit? Oh, 
yes ! But surely, surely deceit is justified when 
the alternative means — death ! 

Dean. 

Death ! Dear me ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Do you really think poor Michael would succumb 
if he learned the dreadful truth? 

Lady Patricia. 

I know it. Have you ever seen such devotion 
as his ? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

It's certainly remarkable. . . . 

Dean. 

(Briskly.) Now, Lady Patricia, are you pre- 
pared to put yourself unreservedly in my hands ? 

Lady Patricia. 
I am. 

Dean. 

Then I shall require two things of you. Firstly, 
that you break off these relations with young 
O'Farrel. 



192 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

I have determined on that already. I won't speak 
of the suffering it will cause me. I have merited 
suffering and will bear it in silence. But when I 

think of him ! My poor, poor boy ! What is 

to become of him without me? . . . Oh, you are 
his mother — can you devise no means of softening 
this blow for him? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

(Reverently .) I think we may safely leave that 
in the hands of Providence. 

Dean. 

I quite share your opinion. Secondly, Lady 
Patricia, I wish you to tell your husband every- 
thing. 

Lady Patricia. 

(Genuinely startled.) Michael ! 

Dean. 

Everything. 

Lady Patricia. 

(Very much in earnest.) No — no. It's im- 
possible. I could never think of doing that. 

Dean. 

You said just now you would place yourself 
unreservedly in my hands. 

Lady Patricia. 

But I never dreamt you intended to punish the 



LADY PATRICIA 193 

innocent for my sin. Why should Michael's life 
and happiness be blighted because I've strayed 
from righteousness ? 

^RS. O'Fareel. 

I think it's just possible Michael may survive 
the shock. 

Lady Patricia. 

And I know that it will kill him. It's 
impossible ! 

Dean. 

{Sternly.) I insist. 

Lady Patricia. 
And I refuse. 

Mrs. O'Faerel. 

That brings me into the fray ! The Dean, as 
your confessor, no doubt considers himself bound 
to keep your story secret. I don't. So look here, 
Patricia ; unless you make a clean breast of this 
to Michael, I shall go to him with it myself. 

Lady Patricia. 
You! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
I. 

Lady Patricia. 

No ! No ! I don't believe you're capable of 
such infamy. 

13 



194 LADY PATRICIA 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Oh, yes I am. 

Lady Patricia. 

I don't believe it. I don't believe it ! It would 
be too cruel and wicked ! Aunt Eileen, for pity's 
sake 



Mrs. O'Farrel. 

You won't get any pity out of me, my dear — not 
an ounce ! Either you or I tell Michael the story 
from start to finish — and if I tell him, there won't 
be much left of your character when I've finished. 

Lady Patricia. 

(Wildly.) What am I to do? .What am I to 
do? Dean — Dean — will you allow my aunt to 
wreak her horrible vengeance on me by murdering 
my husband ? 

Dean. 

Oh, but really, I don't think it will be quite so 
bad as that. 

Lady Patricia. 

But I know it — I know it ! 

Dean. 

Besides, how am I to prevent her — even if I 
wished to? 

Lady Patricia, 

As the mouthpiece of spiritual authority. . . . 



LADY PATRICIA 195 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

I don't care a rap for his spiritual authority. 

Dean. 

,You see. 

(A pause. Lady Patricia stands rigid, with 
clenched hands. Finally she speaks in a 
low, dull voice.) 

Lady Patricia. 

Then — you — really — mean — to — do — this? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
Certainly. 

Lady Patricia. 
I — am — ruined . 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Konsense ! I've a strong idea this may be the 
saving of you both. 

Lady Patricia. 

Puined. ... I should like to sit down. 

Dean. 

My dear lady {Brings her a chair .) 

Lady Patricia. 

{Sits, and points blindly to the breakfast table.) 
Is that . . . milk? 

Dean. 

Yes. Would you 



196 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Patricia. 

I should like a little milk. {The DEAN gives it 
to her.) Thank you. . . . I — I will tell Michael 
all. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Bravo ! We shall make a woman of you yet ! 

Lady Patricia. 

You are very hard and cruel and vindictive. 
. . . But I forgive you. 

(John enters.) 
John. 

Mr. Cos way has called, sir. 

Lady Patricia. 

{In a whisper.) Michael ! 

Dean. 

-Where is he? 

John. 

In the study, sir. 

Dean. 

Lady Patricia 

Lady Patricia. 

No — no — no . 

Dean. 

Just a minute, John. 

John. 

Yes, sir. {Retires to the back.) 



LADY PATRICIA 197 

Lady Patricia. 

What does it mean ? Why is he here ? 

Dean. 

He said he might call this morning on the way 
to church. Lady Patricia, go to him now. Tell 
him everything now. 

Lady Patricia. 
I can't — I can't 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Get it over, Patricia. 

Dean. 

Come, dear lady 



{He offers her his arm. Lady Patricia rises 
unsteadily, stares for a moment wildly 
before her, then sits down again.) 

Lady Patricia. 

I haven't the strength — I haven't the strength to 
go to him. . . . My knees tremble. Bring him 
here and leave us together. . . . 

Dean. 

{Calling.) John. 

(John re-enters.) 
John. 
Yes sir? 

Dean. 

Ask Mr. Cosway to come here. 



198 LADY PATRICIA 

John. 

Yes sir. (JoHN goes out.) 

Mrs, O'Farrel. 

Cheer up, Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

A little since and I was glad, but now 
I never shall be glad or sad again. . . .'' 

Dean. 

I — er — beg your pardon ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Swinburne. . . . For the last time — for the last 
time, Aunt Eileen, I ask you to spare me. 

Dean. 

Perhaps, after all, we had better 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

No ! Don't be a fool. Dean ! No, Patricia, 
you've got to go through with this. Believe me, 
the result will astonish you. 

Lady Patricia. 

What do you mean ? 

(Michael enters from the house.) 

Dean. 

Ah, good morning, Cosway. 

Michael. 

(Standing still at the back and looking at Lady 



LADY PATRICIA 199 

Patricia with startled eyes ; whispers.) Patricia ! 
. . . Have you told her? 

Dean. 
Hsh! 

(Without greeting Mrs. O'Farrel he goes to 
Patricia, who stares straight before her.) 

Michael. 

Patricia, dearest. . . . I — I didn't expect to 
find you here. 

Lady Patricia. 
Nor — I — you. . . . 

Dean. 

Lady Patricia wants to speak to you privately. 
We — er — will leave you together. 

Michael. 

(In a whisper.) Privately? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Good morning, Michael. 

Michael. 

Er — good morning. 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Delightful weather ! 

Michael. 

Yes — er — ver — very nice. 



200 LADY PATRICIA 

Mes, O'Farrel. 

Come along, Dean. j(Takes his arm and leads 
him to the house.) 

Dean. 

{As they go in.) Poor woman ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Fiddlesticks ! (They go into the house.) 

Michael. 

You — you look so white and strange, dearest. 
Are you ill . . . Patricia? 

Lady Patricia. 

I am thirsty. . . . My throat is parched. . . . 
Please give me some milk. . . . 

Michael. 

Milk? . . . Yes, dear. (Moves towards the 
house.) I'll be back in a moment. 

Lady Patricia. 

No — no. It is on the table. 

Michael. 

iThe milk? . . . Oh, yes. I see. 

(Pours her out inadvertently some of the hot 
milk for the coffee, and kneeling at her 
side, offers it to her.) 

Lady Patricia. 

(Taking milk.) Don't kneel to me — don't kneel 
to me ! (She takes a sip of milk and hands it 



LADY PATRICIA 201 

hack to him with a wry face.) It is boiled. . . . 
{He places it hack on the table.) 

Michael. 

{Returning to her.) Patricia ! 

Lady Patkicia. 

No — no — no — no ! Don't look at me — don't touch 
me — stand up — stand away from me. . . . 

Michael. 
Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 
Do as I say. 

Michael. 

{Getting to his feet ivitli a terrified face.) They 
— they have told you — they 

Lady Patricia. 

Hush ! . . . don't speak. Give me time. . . . 
I — I am a broken woman. 

Michael. 

No, no, no ! I will cherish you— I will worship 
you — I will serve you on my knees 

Lady Patricia. 

{Genuinely puzzled.) Michael ! 

Michael. 

All the rest of my life — every hour — every 
moment — will be given to making up for my sin. 



202 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 

(Amazed.) Your sin? 

Michael. 

My crime then. 

Lady Pateicia. 
Your ! 

Michael. 

(Pouring forth the words in a torrent of 
passionate entreaty. Lady Pateicia stands star- 
ing at him first in bewilderment, then in amaze- 
ment, then in dawning comprehension, finally in 
arctic realisation.) It was cruel of them — it was 
unfair to steal a march on me like this. For your 
sake — for mine — they should have left the confes- 
sion to me. I would have withheld nothing. I 
would have told you all of my own free will. But 
they've spoken. And I see it — they've put the 
vilest construction on the few words they over- 
heard last night. They have made you helieve the 
worst of me. But it's not true, Patricia. I swear 
it. It's not true. (Lady Pateicia makes a 
gesture as though to speak.) No, no, let me speak i 
... I have been faithful to the letter of our 
marriage vow — I have been unfaithful to the spirit. 
I am a man with a man's passions, but for your 
sake I fought and kept my sinful love pure. Doubt 
all else — but believe that. You must believe it. 
You shall. ... I am not trying to excuse my- 
self. There is no excuse for what I have done. 
But O, Patricia, you know that to love and not 



LADY PATRICIA 203 

to love isn't in our control. And if I never loved 
you with all the passion I pretended . . . I'm 
really deeply attached to you. It was for your 
sake I pretended. I felt it might kill you should 
you ever dream that your wonderful love was not 
returned in full . . . that I loved . . . else- 
where . 

Lady Patricia. 

(In a cold, level voice.) What are you talking 
about? 

Michael. 

(Floored.) Eh ... ? 

Lady Patricia. 

You appear to be under the impression that the 
Dean and Aunt Eileen have told jne something 
unpleasant about you. 

Michael. 

Well, haven't they? 

Lady Patricia. 

They have told me nothing. 

Michael. 

Oh. . . . I — I thought they had. . . . 

Lady Patricia. 

And now perhaps you will kindly explain the 
meaning of all this. 

Michael. 

I — I've told you everything. 



204 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 
Who is the woman? 

Michael. 

Clare Lesley. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Clare — Lesley ! . . . I don't believe it — it's 
impossible. I don't believe it ! . . . (MiCHAEL 
is silent.) Do you mean to tell me that you 
don't adore me? 

Michael. 

I'm — I'm very fond of you. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Fond of me? Then all your passion has been 
a sham, and you've been making love to that — 
that — oh, what is the horrible word? . . . 

Michael. 

(Deferentially.) Er — impossible . . . ? 

Lady Pateicia. 

No — no . . . with two " p's." . . . 

Michael. 

Appalling . . . ? 

Lady Pateicia. 

No. . . . Flapper. . . . Oh, how I've been 
fooled ! And they know it — the Dean and Aunt 
Eileen. You've made me a figure of fun — some- 
thing to point and jeer at. . . . Oh, I could 
kill myself and — you ! 



LADY PATRICIA 205 

Michael. 

I am not worthy to live. 

Lady Pateicia. 

And to think of all I have gone through for 
your sake — how I've forced myself to take your 
kisses and return them — how for months and 
months I fought and struggled to keep down the 
one great passion of my life. All for your sake — 
all because I thought you loved me ! Oh, the 
bitter irony of it ! 

Michael. 

What do you mean by this? 

Lady Patricia. 

But now the one obstacle to my love has been 
removed. I will go to him now — I will put my 
arms around him. He shall love me and I will 
love him. 

Michael . 

What are you saying, Patricia? Are you mad? 
Of whom are you speaking? 

Lady Patricia. 

Bill. Bill O'Farrel — Bill, whom I love and who 
loves me. 

Michael. 

Bill O'Farrel ! 

Lady Patricia. 

For two years he has been the passion of my 



206 LADY PATRICIA 

soul. He will now become my heart's delight. 
lYes, Michael, you have taken my wonderful and 
unrequited love for you too much for granted. 
You have played the infatuated husband so 
artistically that I believed in it to the extent of 
playing the infatuated wife in return. 

Michael. 
You ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Yes, I ! I remained with you — I pretended to 
be absorbed in you, because I thought it would 
kill you if you realised that I wanted something 
more than you. 

Michael. 

Bill 'Parrel. . . . 

Lady Pateicia. 

Yes— Bill O'Farrel ! 

Michael. 

Does any one know of this? 

Lady Patricia. 
They all know. 

Michael. 

That you've tricked and fooled me and jnade 
a laughing-stock of me?, Oh 

Lady Patricia. 

.What have you done with me? 



LADY PATRICIA 207 

Michael. 

When did they find it out? 

Lady Pateicia. 

They overheard us last night. 

Michael. 

You and O'Farrel? 

Lady Patricia. 
Yes. 

Michael. 

In the tree — when they overheard us ? 

Lady Patricia. 

You, too ! Ah, I see it all now — I see it all. 
She said I must confess to you — that aunt — 
she said the result would astonish me. And now 
— now she's hugging herself with vindictive joy at 
having humiliated me to the dust. But she has 
not finished with me yet. No ! I can still strike 
back — and strike I will ! You have no love for 
me. Very well. I know where to go for love. 

Michael. 

What do you mean ? 

Lady Patricia. 

Bill loves me — he loves me — he worships me. 
I shall go to him — I shall hold him to me — I shall 
love him. 

Michael. 
I forbid it. 



208 LADY PATRICIA 

Lady Pateicia. 

Who are you to forbid me ? 

Michael. 

I am your husband. 

Lady Patricia. 

You ! You are no husband of mine ! He is my 
husband because he loves me ! 

Michael . 

If you go to him, I will return to Clare. 

Lady Patricia. 
To Clare ! 

Michael. 

To the girl who loves me with all the strength 
of her young heart and soul. 

Lady Patricia. 

You shall never do that ! 

Michael. 

And who's to prevent me? 

Lady Patricia. 
I. 

Michael. 

You — the woman who has tricked me — fooled 
me, and now threatens to leave me for another ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Threatens ! I don't threaten. I mean to do it. 



LADY PATRICIA 209 

Michael. 

Very well, then. Leave me to go my own way. 

Lady Pateicia. 

Go to her. Go to her. And I will go to him. 

(She turns and moves towards the house. He 
takes a step or two to the left, then stops 
with an exclamation.) 

Michael. 
Clare! ... 

Lady Patricia. 

(She turns, looks to the left, and starts with a 
faint cry.) Bill ! 

(They both stand irresolute and embarrassed. 
Bill and Clare enter from the left, also 
irresolute and embarrassed.) 
Bill. 

Er — good morning, Cousin Patricia. 

Lady Patricia. 
Good morning, Bill. 

Clare. 

Good morning, Mr. Cosway. 

Michael. 

Good morning, Clare. 

Bill. 

(A pause. He says in a whisper to Clare :) 
I say — you tell them. 

14 



210 LADY PATRICIA 

Clare. 

(In a whisper.) No— you. 

Bill. 

Awfully — er — jolly morning, Cousin Patricia, 
isn't it. 

Lady Patricia. 

Yes . . . very . . . jolly. 

Clare. 

I've been for — for a walk, Mr. Cosway. 

Michael. 

Oh, yes — it's nice weather for walking. Are 
you tired ? 

Clare. 

Oh, no, thank you. {To BiLL in a whisper:) 
Tell them. . . . 

Bill. 

I say ... I say, Michael. 

Michael. 
Sir? 

Bill. 

You'll be glad — I mean you'll be awfully sur- 
prised to hear that I — that Clare and I — that's to 
say, that we're — Clare and I, you know 

Clare. 

(Zwi a whisper.) Oh, get it out ! 



LADY PATRICIA 211 

Bill. 

Well, you see — we're engaged. 

Lady Patkicia and Michael. 
Engaged ! 

Bill. 

Yes. We hadn't meant to be — but ... we are. 

Clake. 

We tried awfully hard to hold out for — for the 
sake of others . . . but 



(She goes impulsively up to Michael, puts 
her hand on his arm and speaks in a low 
voice.) 

I'm awfully sorry, Mike. I'm a beast, I know. 
But I can't help it. . . . 

Michael. 

(Rigid and staring before him.) How long have 
you loved him ? 

Clare . 

Oh . . . ages ... I ought to have told you, 
but 



Michael. 

I don't wish to hear another word. 

(Bill has gone up to Lady Patricia, who 
stands motionless with a tragic face, 
staring before her. His appearance is that 
of a naughty schoolboy, hat in hand and 
shifting from one foot to the other.) 



212 LADY PATRICIA 

Bill'. 

{To Lady Patkicia.) I— I— I— I'm sorry— I've 
behaved rottenly — but I — I — I'm awfully fond of 
you. ... Of course I ought — but you see — I — 
that's to say — but she — she's — you know what I 
mean — I'm 

Lady Pateicia. 
Enough. . . . 

(Bill goes to Clare, who gives him her 
hand.) 

Clare. 

Now for the pater. . . . 

Bill. 

Help! ... 

{They go into the house. MICHAEL and LADY 
Patricia stand motionless, ivith clenched 
hands, staring before them. A long 'pause. 
The gateway hell rings. A pause. John 
enters from the house and opens the ivicket 
door. Baldwin enters.) 

Baldwin. 

'Scuse me, Mr. John, but I think as I lef my 
'ymn-book and prayer-book on the lawn. 

John. 

I haven't seen 'em. 

Baldwin. 

That's them yonder. {Distant sound of church 



LADY PATRICIA 213 

bells.) Lord, if that ain't the first bell ! (JOHN 
goes out.) Beg pardon, m'lady. Beg pardon, 
sir. I jest want my prayer-book an' 'ymn-book. 
(Ficks them up.) Thank 'ee, m'lady. They was 
given me by Mrs. Baldwin as was me first wife. 
I thought as 'ow I'd lef them on 'er grave jest 
now when I went to 'ave a look at it. But 

Michael. 

That will do, Baldwin. 

Baldwin. 

Thank 'ee, sir. 
(He is just about to go out when the house 
door opens and the ringing laughter of 
Bill and Clare brings him to a stand- 
still. They enter, followed by the voice 
of Mrs. O'Farrel : " Be off— both of 
you ! " and her laugh.) 

Bill. 

I say, darling, weren't they corking? 

Clare. 

{Pointing to the motionless Michael and Lady 
Patricia and putting a finger to her lips.) 
S-sh! . . . 

Bill. 
Oh. . . . 

(Very sedately they pass up the path to the 
gateway, but just as they go out Bill 
passes his arm through Clare's and 



214 LADY PATRICIA 

squeezes it. They disappear. MRS. 
O'Farrel and the Dean enter from the 
house, followed later by John and 
Robert.) 

Dean. 

(Jovially.) So much for tact and diplomacy ! 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 
And common -sense ! 

Dean. 

(Lowering his voice and indicating the rigid 
Michael and Lady Patricia.) And these two? 

Mrs. O'Farrel. 

Best leave them alone. 

Dean. 

No, no ! . . . 
(Goes up to Michael and Lady Patricia, 
while Mrs. O'Farrel goes out; John, 
standing near the door, waits for the 
Dean.) 

Are you not going to join us in church? (A 
pause.) My dear friends, on such a morning as 
this we should all sing the Te Deum, and forget 
everything but the joy of being alive. . . . 

(He looks smilingly from one to the other, 
then goes out, followed by John. Robert 
waits at the door. A pause. BALDWIN 
stands hesitating. Lady Patricia turns 
to Michael.) 



LADY PATRICIA 215 

Lady Patricia. 
Michael! . . . 

Michael. 
Yes. 

Lady Patricia. 

Under the great rose window in the south 
transept onr pew is now full of purple and 
amber lights and shafts of chrysoprase. Shall 
we not sit there again together? 

Michael. 

I don't see what else there is to do. . . . 
Patricia ! 

Lady Patricia. 

Michael;! . . . Repentance is very exquisite, 
and how beautiful is forgiveness. Come. . . . 

(Followed at a respectful distance by Baldwin, 
they go out together in silence side by 
side, and the Curtain falls as they pass 
under the gateway.) 



The End. 



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